' 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 FROM 
 
 TENNESSEE. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN (TROTWOOD) MOORE. 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
 'JOHN C. BAUER, PUBLISHER. 
 1897.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1897. 
 
 JOHN (TROTWOOD) MOORE, 
 
 COLUMBIA, TENN.
 
 T 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HIS is a very large world, and so I have not tried to cover, 
 in this little book, any very great portion of it; but have 
 contented myself in a faithful endeavor to describe, truth 
 fully, life as it has been, and is, in the Middle Basin of Ten 
 nessee the Blue Grass Plot of the State. 
 
 And this spot is rich in history and tradition so rich that 
 for years I fretted because no gifted one of its citizens would 
 arise and tell to the world, in story and in song, the earnest 
 life, the sweet simplicity, the matchless beauty, the unpub 
 lished glory of its land and its folk. And when none arose, 
 week after week, without a thought that what was hastily 
 ^ written for an obscure department of a country paper, The 
 Columbia Herald, or, later, for the Pacing Department of a 
 <\l turf journal, The Horse Review, of Chicago, would be found 
 o worthy of compilation, I have only attempted to do what a 
 greater one should have done. 
 
 To those who will read this book, the author begs them to 
 fy bear in mind that he does not claim for these 'little peoples 
 of his brain any great amount of genius or originality. But 
 Q he does claim that, though decked in homespun and home- 
 O liness, they are the faithful little children of their own bright 
 jjj land, the truthful representatives of the one dear spot, fresh 
 5 from the fields and the forests, the paddocks and the pens 
 9 of the Middle Basin. 
 
 ^ It is customary with some authors to dedicate their books 
 
 to others. To my father, Judge John Moore, and my moth 
 er, Emily Adelia Billingslea, both of whom yet live in the 
 old home at Marion, Alabama, I dedicate this, an unfinished 
 tribute of my love and honor, a half expressed token of the 
 gratitude I owe them. 
 
 JOHN (TROTWOOD) MOORE. 
 Columbia, Tenn., Sept. i, 1897. 
 
 443309
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 *~pIS the coward who quits to misfortune, 
 1 Tis the knave who changes each day, 
 Tis the fool who wins half the battle, 
 Then throws all his chances away. 
 
 There is little in life but labor, 
 
 And to-morrow may find that a dream; 
 Success is the bride of Endeavor, 
 
 And luck but a meteor's gleam. 
 
 The time to succeed is when others, 
 Discouraged, show traces of tire. 
 
 The battle is fought in the homestretch 
 And won 'twixt the flag and the wire! 
 
 THE BASIN OF TENNESSEE. 
 
 THE Middle Basin is the dimple of the Universe. 
 About equal in area to Lake Ontario nearly 6,000 
 square miles situated in Middle Tennessee and surrounded 
 by the Highland Rim, it is one of those peculiar 
 geological formations made long ago when the earth was 
 young. In altitude, but little higher than the first plateau 
 beyond the Mississippi; in shape, oval and symmetrical as 
 the tapering turn of an egg shell cut lengthwise; in depth, 
 from 500 to 1,000 feet deep enough to break the force of 
 the wind, and yet high enough to concentrate, as by a focus, 
 the slanting sunbeams and the shadows. 
 
 Away back in the past it was once the bed of a silver 
 shining lake. But whether its waves boiled beneath a torrid 
 sun, lashed into foam by saurian battles, or whether glacial 
 icebergs sunk their crystal pillars in its depths and lifted their
 
 8 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 diamond-turreted peaks to the steel-cold stars of an unan- 
 swering heaven, no one will ever know. 
 
 And what became of it? We shall never know. Per 
 haps an earthquake rent its natural levees, and it fled with the 
 Cumberland or the Tennessee to the gulf. Perhaps the 
 mighty Mississippi brushed with his rough waves too closely 
 to the western border of our calm lake one day, and she went 
 with him, a willing captive, to the sea. Or, she may have 
 passed out down the dark channels of some mammoth cave 
 whose caverns have never yet heard the sound of human voice 
 we know not. All we know is, the lake was here the lake 
 is gone. Time is long. 
 
 The mound-builders were not here then, for they have 
 dotted its fertile basin with a thousand voiceless monuments 
 of a voiceless age. Time is long. The lake was here the 
 lake is gone. 
 
 But when it went, it left the sweet richness of its fare 
 well kiss upon the lips of our valleys, and the fullness of its 
 parting tears on the cheeks of our hills. It made the loam 
 and the land, the spirit and the springs, the creeks and the 
 cream of the Middle Basin of Tennessee the Blue Grass 
 Plot of the State. 
 
 An animal is the product of the environments that sur 
 round him the blossom of the soil upon which he lives. He 
 is part of the sunlight and the grass, the rock and the water, 
 the grain and the gravel, the air which he breathes and the 
 ant-hill which he crushes beneath his feet. Man is the high 
 est animal. Then behold the man of the Middle Basin, the 
 highest development of the animal creation: Jackson. 
 Crockett, Houston, Bell, Polk, Gentry, Maury, Forrest 
 these and thousands of others whose names and fame are 
 fadeless. 
 
 The life of man is what he makes it; and of a state 
 what man makes it. And so, in the course of time, the two 
 become as one^the men become the state while the state is 
 ever but its men. Character is what we are; reputation is
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 9 
 
 what we are supposed to be. A history of the Middle Basin, 
 then, is but a record of the character of the people who have 
 lived and died there. If she did great things in the past, it 
 was because she had great characters in the past. The wis 
 dom of those ancient Greeks who taught their children that 
 they were descended from the gods is to be admired; had 
 they not, I doubt if the Greeks had acted like the gods, as 
 they did when they met the Persians at Thermopylae and 
 Salamis, and even that far back, made the story of the Mid 
 dle Basin a possibility. 
 
 Our ideals, at last, are the true gauges of our characters, 
 and the higher we rear these castles in the air, the loftier 
 will our own soul-dwellings be. Let us build our characters 
 as we would our castles, alike beyond the reach of those who 
 climb and those who throw. For the ideal and the real go 
 together. The dream must precede the chisel, the vision 
 be father to the brush, the thought to the pen. 
 
 Briefly stated, our forefathers of the Middle Basin came 
 from North Carolina and Virginia, and when they came over 
 the mountain they brought its granite with them. 
 
 Mountains and hills have always produced genius and 
 liberty. There is a divine spirit that dwells in the rarefied 
 air of the hill-tops, that is incompatible with ease, with slav 
 ery and with sloth. It seems to permeate the souls of those 
 who breathe it, to lift them above the sordidness of that 
 wealth which accumulates in the valleys but for decay. 
 
 Andrew Jackson was their type and, like hire, their deeds 
 will live forever. 
 
 Down the long aisle of the centuries to thfc organ notes of 
 
 fame 
 
 Stalks a silent figure hallowed in the light of glory's name; 
 Stalks a grand, majestic manhood to those eon fields to be, 
 A spiritual pyramid in the land of memory. 
 
 And if we cannot prove that we are descended from the
 
 I0 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 gods, we can at least demonstrate that we are the children 
 of god-like men and women and that is better. 
 
 Years have passed and yet the Middle Basin is as rich 
 and beautiful to-day in the green dressing of autumn's after 
 g-asses, as she was on that memorable day, years ago, when 
 Hood's army, on its march to Nashville, c-ttne thundering 
 with thirty-five thousand men over Sand Mountain from the 
 bloody fields around Atlanta. The Tennessee troops, as a 
 guard of honor, led the advance. For days they marched 
 among the "old red hills of Georgia," the pines of North Ala 
 bama and the black-jacks of the Highland Rim. But sud 
 denly, as they wheeled in on the plateau beyond Mt. Pleasant. 
 a beautiful picture burst on their view. Below them, like a 
 vision, lay the border land of the Middle Basin a sea of 
 green and golden; green, for the trough of the land waves, 
 somber in the setting sun, had taken on the emerald hues 
 of the pasture grasses; golden, for the swelling hills, where 
 rolled the woodlands, were studded with the bright gold 
 foliage of autumn leaves, nipped by the early frosts. Farm 
 house and fences, orchards and open field, meadow and mean 
 dering streams, newly plowed wheat fields and rustling rows 
 of trembling corn, all basking in the quiet glory of mellow 
 sunlight, formed a picture so restful to the eye of the tired 
 soldier and so sweet and soothing to the homesick heart, 
 that involuntarily his old slouched hat came off, his musket 
 shifted to "present arms," and a genuine rebel yell rolled from 
 regiment to regiment, from brigade to brigade, as this splen 
 did master-piece of nature unfolded before them. 
 
 "Have we struck the enemy's picket already?" asked the 
 thoughtful Hood, now thoroughly aroused and his keen eyes 
 taking on the flash of battle. 
 
 "No, General, but we've struck God's country," shouted 
 a ragged soldier present, as he saluted and joined in swelling 
 the volume of the reverberating yell. 
 
 Even the gallant Cleburne, Honor's own soldier, the 
 man whose matchless brigade a year before, at the retreat
 
 FROM TENNESSEE ZI 
 
 from Chickamauga, had stopped Grant's whole army at Ring- 
 gold Gap, tipped a soldier's salute to the quiet church-yard at 
 Ashwood, and expressed the wish if he fell in the coming 
 battle, he might sleep his last sleep there. Prophetic wish! 
 With thirteen other field officers he fell, a few days afterward, 
 around the bloody breastworks of Franklin, and yielded up 
 his life "as a holocaust to his country's cause." 
 
 But even War the cloven-footed curse that he is could 
 not blanche her cheek save for a moment, and as soon as 
 the last echo of his tread had died away, she aroused again to 
 life, with a wreath of emerald on her brow, the blush of the 
 clover blossoms on her cheek, the sparkle of her own bright 
 springs in her eye, and the song of the reaper in her ear. 
 
 Upon the knolls where cannon hurled 
 
 Their deadly grape between, 
 The stately locusts have unfurled 
 
 Their flag of white and green. 
 And o'er the ridge upon the crest 
 
 Where gleamed the flashing blade, 
 The serried rows of corn, abreast 
 
 Stand out on dress parade. 
 
 Adown the slope where once did reel 
 
 The stubborn ranks of gray, 
 Now speeds the flying reaper's wheel 
 
 Now charge the ranks of bay. 
 And down the vale where marched the blue 
 
 With band and banner fine, 
 The frisky lambs in ranks of two 
 
 Deploy their skirmish line. 
 
 And so is she rich in climate and in soil; but richer far 
 in the memory of heroic men in lives that shall live and 
 a beauty that shall never die:
 
 I2 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 O, the glorious Middle Basin, 
 
 The rose in Nature's wreath! 
 With her purpling sky and her hills on high 
 
 And her blue grass underneath. 
 Tis here our fathers built their homes, 
 'Tis here their sons are free 
 For the fairest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 O, the fertile Middle Basin! 
 
 Proud Egypt's threshing floor 
 Held not in the chain of her golden grain 
 
 Such fields as lie at our door. 
 Our daughters grow like olive plants 
 Our sons like the young oak tree 
 For the richest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 O, the joyous Middle Basin, 
 
 Land of the mocking-bird! 
 Where the flying feet of our horses fleet 
 
 In front of the race are heard. 
 They get their gameness from our soil. 
 Their spirit will ever be 
 For the merriest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 O, the loyal Middle Basin! 
 
 So quick for fife and drum! 
 She stood in the breach on the crescent beach 
 
 When the hated foe had come. 
 Her Jackson made our Nation safe, 
 
 Her Polk an Empire free
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 For the truest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 O, the glorious Middle Basin! 
 
 Can we be false to thee? 
 Sweet land where the earth and the sky give birth 
 
 To the spirit of Liberty! 
 Not while our maids have virtue, 
 Not while our sons are free 
 For the fairest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 ! 3 
 
 THE SUMMER OF LONG AGO. 
 
 DO you know the land, the fairest land 
 In the mythical realms of old? 
 Where the earth and the air, and the flowers rare 
 
 All sleep 'neath a sun of gold? 
 Where the elf-king's bugle in winding note 
 
 Drowns the dreamy drum in the black bee's throat, 
 And the fairy queen floats in her peach-bloom boat? 
 The fire-flies dance where the lily-maids meet 
 And the flowers are dreams that lie at your feet 
 In the Summer of Long Ago. 
 
 Do you know the land, the sweetest land, 
 
 In the rhythmical realms of old? 
 Where the moon and her beams bring the romancing gleams 
 
 Of a love you never have told? 
 Where the star king's horsemen in platoons of light 
 
 Bring your soul-secret love on a palfry of white, 
 And her lips meet your lips ere she taketh her flight?
 
 I 4 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 The will-o'-wisp drops like a star from the sun, 
 And the brooklets are poems that rhyme as they run 
 In the Summer of Long Ago. 
 
 Have you seen the queen of that beautiful land 
 
 In the radiant realms of old? 
 With eyes like the stars of the May-pop bars, 
 
 And throat like the lily's fold? 
 Queen of your home in that yet-to-be day, 
 
 To hold you in bondage forever and aye, 
 Yet to love and to cherish, to bless and obey 
 
 And queen even now in a kingdom above 
 
 The little sweetheart you first learned to love 
 In the Summer of Long Ago. 
 
 OLE MISTIS. 
 
 A BRIGHT, sunny morning, about fifty years ago, in a val- 
 1\ ley of the Middle Basin of Tennessee. A handsome 
 brick residence, with sturdy pillars and flanking galleries, on 
 a grassy knoll that slopes up from a winding pike. Barns, 
 whitewashed and clean as a sanded kitchen floor; fences, shin 
 ing in long lines in the hazy, spring sunlight; orchards, in 
 bloom and leaf; wheatfields, stretching away in billowy 
 freshness, turning now to amber, now to emerald, as the west 
 wind laughed across them. Further on, a meadow, dotted 
 with sheep and cattle, while nearer the house, and to the 
 right, a narrower meadow of bluegrass, through which mer 
 rily leaped a sparkling branch whose source was in a large 
 stone dairy near the house. This meadow had been divided 
 into paddock after paddock, each containing a handsome 
 mare or two, with foal at her side. 
 
 This is the home of Col. James Dinwiddie, the courtliest 
 gentleman, best farmer, kindest friend, most relentless enemy,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 15 
 
 most charitable neighbor, nerviest gambler, and owner of 
 some of the best race horses in Tennessee. 
 
 "Horse racing," he has said a hundred times,"is the sport 
 of the gods. A man must breed horses twenty or thirty years 
 and have his ancestors do the same, too, before he can be 
 come an all around gentleman. The proper study of mankind, 
 sir with due respect to Alexander Pope is horsekind. 
 Gambling on horse races is wrong of course it is, sir. It's 
 wrong just like it's wrong to gamble on the price of wheat 
 or corn, or city lots, or to raffle off cakes and quilts at church 
 festivals, or to run up a bill at your grocer's when the chances 
 are ten to one you'll never pay it wrong, all wrong, sir. But 
 how are you going to stop it? I, for one, shall not try. The 
 Dinwiddies can show ten generations of gentlemen, sir, and 
 not a single hypocrite" and he would invite you out to a 
 paddock to see a stallion he had lately imported from Eng 
 land. "The winner of the Derby, sir," he would add as he 
 looked him critically over; "the winner of the Derby, while 
 kings and princesses looked on in admiration and delight." 
 
 The day wears dreamily on, being one of those spring 
 days when wanton May, coquetting both with April and 
 June, varies her moods to suit each ardent wooer. Every 
 thing is busy growing too busy to attend to anything but its 
 own affairs. Even Brutus, the Colonel's negro jockey, was 
 rubbing with more than usual attention a magnificent blood- 
 like gray mare half covered with a costly all-wool blanket, on 
 which the Dinwiddie monogram was stitched in red silk. In 
 the clean, newly-swept hallway she stood, impatiently enough, 
 with the cooling bridle on, her keen ears now flashing for 
 ward, as some object attracted her attention in front, now laid 
 back threateningly on her neck as the vigorous jockey rubbed 
 too ardently her steaming sides for he had just given her 
 her morning work out and champing incessantly the bright 
 round snaffle-bit in the loosely-fitting head stall. An imp of 
 a darkey, twelve or fifteen years old, small, wiry, with quick, 
 sharp eyes, sits just out of reach of the mare's heels on an
 
 16 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 upturned peck measure, and watches like a cat every move 
 ment of the deft rubber. 
 
 Jake, as his name went, was a privileged character. "The 
 mascot of the barn," as the Colonel called him, "and we can't 
 get along without him him and the rat terrier. Just watch 
 them, Brutus," he had said only yesterday to the new jockey 
 he had lately imported from New Orleans to ride his horses 
 and superintend his stable, "and don't let them go to sleep in 
 the stall with old Mistis or get too near the mare's heels. 
 With any of the other horses it makes little difference. My 
 luck would desert me if either of them got hurt." To-day 
 Jake was taking his first opportunity to tell the new jockey all 
 he knew. 
 
 "You gotter be mighty keerful dar, wid ole Mistis," he 
 said, as the mare raised a hind foot threateningly from a too 
 careless stroke of the rubber, "mighty keerful. She's er on- 
 common kuis mair an' wuf all de res' ob cle string. Didn't ole 
 Marster tell you you mustn't nurver try to rub her off 'twell 
 you's fust cleaned off her face de berry op'site from eny 
 yuther hoss? He ain't? Wai, it's a good thing I tole you, or 
 you'd er bin kicked ober de barn! An' didn't he tell you 
 erbout de waterin' ob her, dat she didn't drink spring warter 
 like de yuthers, but you had to warter her outen de cistern 
 whar de white folks drinks? He ain't? Wai. you jes' try 
 her now. She'll die ob thirstivashun afore she'll drink a drap 
 unless it cums outen de cistern. I'm de onliest one dat un- 
 derstan's dis mair, an' dat's er fac," said the imp, as he arose 
 from his improvised seat and ran a hand down into a jean 
 pocket where he had stored away a bright carrot. Slipping 
 carelessly under the mare's flank, before the jockey could stop 
 him, he bobbed up suddenly under her nose and presented to 
 her the rich vegetable, exclaiming: "Heah, you gray ghost, 
 faster'n greased lightning down er skinned sycermore, an' 
 meaner'n de debil to his muddern-law take dis!" and the bit 
 stopped rattling in her nervous jaws as she proceeded to de 
 vour the carrot, after which she whinnied and then rubbed
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 17 
 
 her nose affectionately on a closely cropped, woolly head, with 
 every sign of satisfaction. "Take me outer dis heah barn," 
 remarked the little darkey pompously, as he strolled back to 
 his seat, catching the mare playfully by the tail as he passed, 
 "an' dis mair would kill sum nigger befo' night. I'm de onli- 
 est one dat understan's her, an' ole Marster '11 tell you so. 
 Didn't he nurver tell you how I made ole Mistis win de ten 
 t'ousan' dollars at de big race las' spring? He ain't? Wai, 
 he mayn't tole it to you, but I've heurd 'im tell it to de guv'- 
 ners, majahs an' j edges dat visits him, when dey sets out in 
 de frunt peazzer an' smokes at night, an' dey nearly die laffin'. 
 'Sides dat, its bin rit in de papers, mun! 
 
 "You see we got holt of er fool heah las' year dat thout 
 de way ter train hosses wus ter beat 'em. We didn't kno' he 
 wus dat way at de time or we wouldn't er hi'ed 'im. We 
 b'leeves in kindness heah; we don't beat nobody 'cept dey 
 b'leeged ter have it noboddy but my mammy, Aunt Fereby, 
 de cook. She beats me nigh ter death sum times, 'kase I'm 
 her onliest chile an' she's tryin' ter raise me right, an' Mar 
 ster says he 'lows it 'kase she's de onliest one on de place dat 
 kno's dey've got de genuwine religun. Wai, dis fellow we 
 got, tried ter train ole Mistis dar, an' lacter ruined her. She 
 won't take no beatin,. No, siree; why, man, dat mair's by 
 Sir Archie, fus' dam by Bosting, secun' dam by Diermeed, 
 third dam by Flyin' Childen, fourth dam by 'Merican 'Clipse, 
 an' so on fur twenty mo' I've heard ole Marster tell it er 
 hunded times. Wai, de end ob it wus we jes' had de oberseer 
 gib dat nigger a cow-hidin' and saunt him erway; an' we 
 turned ole Mistis out on de frunt lawn to try an' furgit it. 
 An' dat's whar I fell in lub wid her. I ain't got nuffin' ter do 
 but to tote de kitchin wood in fer mammy, an' I uster go out 
 dar an' feed ole Mistis apples an' sech lak, an' one day Mar 
 ster tried 'er again on de track, wid me dar to be wid 'er, an' 
 she run lak a skeered deer wid de houns at her heels. Ole 
 Marster laf an' say, 'By de eternal! but dat boy am a reg'laf 
 'muscat he bring me good luck!' and he twell 'em to take
 
 18 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 me to de big race wid 'em at Nashville de nex' month. Jim- 
 iny! But didn't we hab a good time on de road? We hitched 
 up de fo' mule team an' put all our things in an' went long in 
 style. Ole Marster went long in de kerridge wid Mis' Anne 
 dat's de young mistis an' Cap'n Sidney dat's her bow I 
 hates dat white man, he's so mean an' we eben carry de hor- 
 row an' de big pair Devum steers to pull it. 'What you 
 gwine carry dis horrow fur an' dis ox team, Kunnel?' said de 
 Sidney man when we started. 'Bekase, sah,' said ole Marster, 
 'my hosses can't run ober pavements, an' dat's whut dey had 
 to do de las 'time I wus dar. Dat crowd up dar too stingy to 
 keep de tracks horrowed, sah,' an' we all went on. Wai, sah, 
 I slep' in de stall wid ole Mistis ebry night an' she nurver 
 tromped on me nary time. De mornin' ob de race dar wus 
 de bigges' crowd I eber seen. 'Twas down in de ole clobel 
 bottom, whar dey say Gineral Jackson useter race; an' bright 
 an' early ole Marster rid out to de stable on de track an' tell 
 de head jockey to hook up de par of Devum steers to de hor 
 row an' make me horrow de track for ole Mistis an' den he 
 rid off sum'ers. Dey put me on de of? steer an' gin me a big 
 stick, an' I went 'round an' 'round dat track twell I got 
 mighty tired. An' dey guyed me an 'hollered at me up at de 
 gran' stan'. An' one man laffed an 'hollered to sum mo' dar 
 in er little stan' by deyself an' said, 'Time 'em, gineral, ef dey 
 ain't goin' too fas' fur yore watch,' an' den dey all look at me 
 an' de two steers an' laf. 'But,' thinks I to myself, 'ebry man 
 gotter start at de bottom ef he 'specks to rise, an', dough 
 I'm gwine 'round on a steer now, dey am good ones, an' dese 
 folks will yet lib to see me go 'round on dis track on de bes' 
 piece ob hoss flesh dat eber stood on iron.' I kin stan' white 
 folks laffin at me, but de nex' time I cum 'round dar wus 
 some little niggers laffin' an' throwin' clods, an' it made my 
 blood bile. Torectly one on 'em got up clos' to me an' I 
 hauled off an' fotch 'im a whack on de head wid my stick, 
 but de nex' one I hit I missed, an' hit de ox on de tip ob 
 his big horn an' knocked de shell off clear clown to his head.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 19 
 
 Wai, when ole Marster cum he was sho' mad, 'kase he thout a 
 heap ob de steers, an' it sp'iled de match to have one on 'em 
 wid de horn off, an' he ax' de jockey, 'who dun it?' An' de 
 jockey said, 'Ax Jake.' An' he ax me whut I do hit fur, an' 
 he wouldn't b'leeve me when I told him 'bout de little nig 
 gers, an' he took his ridin' whip an' started to lambas' me. 
 But it was den prutty nigh time to race an' he changed his 
 mind an' said: 'No; I won't whip you"; you won't mind dat; 
 but I'll hurt you wusser I'll lock you up in de stable an' 
 you shan't see ole Mistis run her race.' 
 
 "Wai, sah, dat lacter kill me. I beg 'im to gib me a good 
 'un but let me see the race! I cried an' I hollered, but ole 
 Marster had 'em shut me up an' lock me in an' dar I wus. 
 Wai, de crowd guthered an' de ban' played an' de bosses 
 cum out, an' I looked through de crack an' seed ole Mistis 
 wid our colors up an' eb'rybody hoorayin', an' I jes' couldn't 
 stan' it! I knowed ole Marster wus busy an' he'd forgot all 
 erbout me an' I jes' dug out dat stable like a rat, an' slipped 
 up to de three-quarter pole whar de bosses cum doun fur de 
 wurd. Wai, sah, you orter seed dat race; hit wus a corker ef 
 dey eber wus one. I furgot I wus erlive I seemed to be in 
 ernuther wurld I didn't think of the Devum steers no mo' 
 'twus glory hallieluyar, cinnerman bark an' pep'mint candy, 
 two circuses an' er watermelon patch, moonshine and heab- 
 enly angels, an' I turned er summerset, I felt so good, an' hol 
 lered to de common niggers erround me es loud es I could: 
 'Look at ole Mistis! Look at ole Mistis! Jes' lookit my 
 mair!' An' jes' 'bout den dey cum 'round doun our way an' 
 ernudder boss shot by ole Mistis an' de niggers all laf an' 
 holler, 'Whar am ole Mistis now?' an' hit made me so mad I 
 jumped up on de fense an' jes' es de mair cum by I hollered 
 at 'er wid all my might; 'Look out, ole Mistis! Look out, 
 ole Mistis! Look out! Fur Gord sake run!' An' fo' good 
 ness she heurd me for she jes' collared dat boss an' went 
 by 'im lak he wus hitched to de gyardin palins. An' when I 
 seed she bed beat 'im I jes' turned summersets all ober de
 
 20 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 groun' an' walk on my ban's an' h'ist my feet under dem com 
 mon niggers' noses. An' ebery time I turn er summerset an' 
 kick my feet I sing: 
 
 Possum up de gum stump, 
 
 Fat hog in de waller 
 Ole Mistis gin herself a hump 
 
 An' beat 'em all to holler! 
 
 O my ole Mistis! My ole Mistis! 
 
 Whar you gwine? Whar you gwine? 
 O my ole Mistis! My ole Mistis! 
 
 You kno' you ain't ha'f tryin' ! 
 
 "An' den I riz an' turned ernudder summerset an' cracked 
 my heels in de air, an' gin 'em ernudder one 'kase I wus so 
 happy : 
 
 Jay-bird took de hoopin' coff' 
 
 Kildee took de measle, 
 Ole Mistis took de money off 
 Pop goes de weasel! 
 
 O my ole Mistis! My ole Mistis! 
 
 Whar you gwine? Whar you gwine? 
 O my ole Mistis! My ole Mistis! 
 
 You kno' you ain't ha'f tryin'! 
 
 "But when I riz de next time I liked ter drap in my 
 tracks! Dar stood ole Marster an 'er whole crowd er gem- 
 mens lookin' at me an' laffin', an' when he seed I seed 'im he 
 cum up tendin' like he was mighty mad, an' sez: 'You imp 
 of a nigger? Whut you cum outen dat stall fur? I'm er good 
 min' ter flay you erlive?' An' I drapped on de grass at his 
 feet an' sed: 'Ole Marster, kill me beat me to def! I kno' 
 I desarves it, but I've seed de bes' hoss race in de wurl, an'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 2i 
 
 ole Mistis has won it. Thang God! I'm reddy to go!' An' 
 whut you reckon' he dun, nigger? Ole Marster! Right dar 
 in dat crowd! He jes' pull out er ten dollar gold piece, an' 
 laf an' sed: 'Heah, you little rascal! Ef dat mair hadn't 
 heurd you er hollerin' on de fence I don't b'leeve she'd eber 
 made dat spurt an' won de race.' An' de folks all 'round sed 
 de same thing. 'Take dis money,' he sed. 'Now, go an' help 
 rub her off?' Fur er fac' he did." 
 
 "Jake-e-e! Oh, Jakey!" came a terrific voice from the 
 back porch. A glance by Brutus showed that it emanated 
 from the center of a dark, moon-like object which appeared 
 to be in an eclipse, for a deep circle of red bandanna not 
 unlike the rays of the sun creeping over its edges shone 
 over the northern hemisphere. Beneath this cropped out a 
 tuft of corded hair, not unlike the peaks of a lunar mountain. 
 The moon was evidently in a state of activity, however, for 
 from Brutus' distance the terrific "Jake-e! Oh, Jakey!" which 
 continued to pour steadily forth seemed to come out of a vol 
 canic pit, situated near the southern extremity of the satel 
 lite. The sphere seemed poised on an object, which, from the 
 barn door, was not unlike a mountain weighing some three 
 hundred pounds and decked in a blue checked homespun, 
 girdled around the center with a string. At the sound of the 
 voice for such it was, and it came from Aunt Fereby, the 
 cook the small braggart ceased his narration as suddenly as 
 if he had met the fate of Ananias. The fat person in the 
 porch became greatly excited. Shading her eyes with a hand 
 covered with biscuit dough, she looked intently at the barn 
 door, as if it were the object of her wrath, and screamed: 
 
 "Don't you heah me callin' you, yer raskill?" 
 
 "Unc' Brutus," said the small person, now considerably 
 rattled, "is dat mammy callin' me?" 
 
 "You knb' it is," said Brutus, as he went on with his rub 
 bing, while the virago still held her hand over her eyes with 
 a look of vengeance there.
 
 22 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "What am she doin' now," asked the tamer of oxen, in 
 the hallway, "eny thing 'cept hollerin'?" 
 
 "She's gethered up her cloze to her knees," said Brutus, 
 as he glanced up, "an' she's cummin' t' words de barn wid 'er 
 brush-broom in her han's. You'd better git," he added sig 
 nificantly. 
 
 But Jakey needed not this admonition. He had already 
 departed at the rear door of the barn. However, he called 
 back: "Unc' Brutus, don't forgit ter soak de bandages in ar 
 nica water afore you put 'em on ole Mistis' legs. You 
 kno' 
 
 "You git!" said Brutus, picking up a stout cob. "Git! 
 Does de ole rider like me want eny tellin' from a kid of yore 
 stripe?" But Jake had already hurried out of the rear of the 
 barn, intending to keep on down the rock fence and turn up 
 suddenly in the kitchen with a bundle of "sage-grass" in his 
 arms, 'as evidence that he had been on the errand on which 
 he had been sent. But these tactics must have been played 
 before, for the party armed with the brush-broom darted 
 around the rear of the stable, instead of the front, and im 
 mediately afterward the jockey rubbing off the gray mare 
 heard a painful collision, followed by yells from Jakey, and 
 the regular shewow, shewow, shewow of the switches as the 
 current was turned on. A few minutes afterward the moun 
 tain and moon was seen hurriedly advancing back to the 
 kitchen, holding her youthful scion by the ear, while the boy 
 half ran, half jumped, with now and then a yank in the air 
 from his mother to help him along, and getting the benefit 
 of the after-clap a tongue lashing. 
 
 "Dat's de way you am," she said as he went along ( 
 "spendin' yore life, an' sp'ilin' yore chances for usefulness in 
 dis wurl' an' heb'n in de naixt, foolin' wid dat low jockey 
 crowd down dar at de barn, an' me wurryin' myself ter def 
 tryin' to raise you right." (A yank.) "Des' lak de good book 
 say: 'A thankles' chile am sharper'n a suppent's tooth'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 23 
 
 (yank! yank!) only you ain't sharper 'tall (a vigorous 
 twist) ain't sharper nuff to hide in de hay loft when you heah 
 me callin' you 'stead er runnin' out dat back door when you 
 dun dat trick three times befo' an' think I ain't got sense 
 nuff to kno' it! (Yank, yank, yank!) But I needn't 'spec' 
 you to do nuffin right you sp'iled already. Dar! set doun dar 
 in dat cornder," she said as she gave him a final yank in the 
 air and landed him in the kitchen corner, "an" eat dat crack- 
 lin' bread I dun sabe for you while you doun dar at de stable 
 ruinin' yore immoral soul foolin' wid race horses. An' what 
 I sabe it fur you fur?" striking an attitude and looking at him 
 with convincing scorn. "Whut fur, I say? Jes' to teach you 
 a lesson frum de Bible, to let you kno' it allers cums true. 
 Don't it say: 'De way ob de transgressor am hard?' You 
 dun foun' dat out, ain't you? Wai, it also says: 'Blessed am 
 dey dat moans fur dey shall be cumfetted.' You dun hab you 
 moanin', now be cumfitted an' thank yore stars you got a 
 good mudder dat kno's how to 'terprit de scripters," and she 
 flung herself in a chair and proceeded to cool off. 
 
 Jakey accepted the interpretation of the skillet of crack 
 ling bread and having dried his tears on his sleeves, and felt 
 of his ear to see that it was still there, he fell to and proceeded 
 to be comforted with a zeal bordering on religious enthusi 
 asm. 
 
 "But, law!" began his mammy, after a pause, "I can't do 
 nuffin wid him. I heurd Ole Marster say de big race cum off 
 soon an' he gwine take you erlong es a muscat. Dat's de way 
 it am; "De wicked race to dar own destrucshun." 
 
 Jake stopped eating at once. "Is dat so, mammy?" with 
 a look that showed how he stood on the subject. 
 
 For answer the chair was vacated in an instant and the 
 brush-broom picked up. 
 
 "Come, come, Fereby, you have whipped that boy 
 enough!" 
 
 The cook dropped her switches and said apologetically
 
 2 4 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 to her master for it was Col. Dinwiddie who was passing 
 by and spoke "Jes' es you say, Marster. I'm jes tryin' to 
 raise 'im right. You kno' what King Sollermon say: 'Spare 
 de rod an' spile de chile' " triumphantly! 
 
 "Yes, but a greater one than Solomon has said: 
 'Blessed are the merciful; for they shall obtain mercy.' Jake" 
 to the boy "go unhitch my horse from the rack and 
 take him to the barn," and the Colonel went on in. 
 
 The boy went off with alacrity. " 'Blessed am de mer 
 ciful,' he said to himself, 'fur dey shall obtain mercy.' Dat's 
 de bes' religun I eber heurd in my life. Ef all ob 'em had 
 dat kind dar wouldn't be a brush-broom or a mean temper 
 in de wurl," and he patted the horse on the nose and 
 mounted him. Darkey like, he put him through all his 
 gaits before he reached the barn. 
 
 II. 
 
 But although the sun shone so brightly on the fertile 
 fields and splendid mansion of Col. Dinwiddie, there was 
 little of its sunshine in the heart of its owner on that 
 May day, fifty years ago. With a paper in hand, near 
 sunset, he sat out on his front veranda, looking dreamily 
 and moodily ahead at a sloping wheat field across the pike. 
 How beautiful it looked! How the recent rains had brought 
 it out, filling its golden meshes those chaff thatched gran 
 aries with the product of the sun and soil! Near, the big 
 poplars in his own yard lifted their red and yellow wax 
 blossoms to heaven or showered them on the blue grass car 
 pet below. A hundred sweet fragrances filled the evening air, 
 a hundred homely sounds fell on his ears. Among them, 
 and dearer than all others, was the occasional whinny of a 
 stately matron in the paddock beyond, disturbed for a mo 
 ment because her own suckling had strolled off to caper 
 and play mimic racing with some other mare's degenerate 
 offspring. 
 
 "My faculties are peculiarly acute this evening," said
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 
 
 25 
 
 the master to himself, "or else I am a rank coward, unable 
 to stand misfortune. I never saw the old place have such 
 a charm before," he continued, half aloud. "I don't mind 
 giving it up so much on my own account, but Anne" 
 
 "What! father?" answered behind him, a voice full of 
 sweetness. "Did you call me?" and a beautiful girl stepped 
 out from a bay window and, laying her hands affectionately 
 on his shoulders, reached over and playfully kissed him. 
 
 With their faces together, it would not require a close 
 observer to see the striking resemblance between Anne Din- 
 widdie and her father. Left motherless at an early age, Anne 
 had found in one parent all the love and affection usually 
 given by two. Nothing could exceed the Colonel's tender 
 ness and affection for his daughter, and nothing Anne's pride, 
 love and admiration for her father. Perhaps her life with a 
 masculine mind had given a stronger turn to her own, in 
 stead of the feminine cast and romantic play that might have 
 been expected under other circumstances. Or, perhaps she 
 inherited it from her father a strong, firm man himself 
 for the girl was as much known for her practical sense and 
 firmness as for her matchless beauty. This evening, in her 
 baby-waist gown of white muslin, cut low neck and short 
 sleeves, her auburn hair gracefully coiled behind a shapely 
 head and tucked in with a large mother-of-pearl comb, in 
 laid with gold, her face aglow with a silent happiness which 
 bespoke another love within, the girl was divine, and her 
 father drew her to her old place on his knee for though 
 nearly twenty she was to him the little tot of two years 
 the same he wept over in her crib the night after her mother 
 was laid away forever, and the first great grief of his life 
 came to break in on his ambition the ambition "to breed 
 the best horse that ever lived on the best farm in Tennessee." 
 
 The Colonel was a man that spoke to the point, and of 
 few words. In his daughter he found a mind in which his 
 own sought help and advice. All his business was known
 
 2 6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 to her. Even many of his breeding problems he had tried 
 to solve with her aid, and it was no little, for she had pedi 
 grees and records at her tongue's end and knew the great 
 horses of the past as mariners did the stars. 
 
 "My child," said her father, bluntly, "I have gambled 
 once too often; I am afraid I've ruined us/' and he looked 
 away across the wheat fields. 
 
 An expression of pain came over the girl's strong face, 
 but she said nothing. This one question of gambling on 
 horses was the only one on which her father and herself 
 had differed, and the look she now wore showed that at last 
 had happened what she always feared would happen. At 
 length she asked: 
 
 "How much is it?" 
 
 "Forty thousand dollars" his eyes still on the distant 
 fields. 
 
 "Can you pay it?" in a tone which showed she was more 
 afraid of her father's honor suffering than of being left pen 
 niless herself. 
 
 "Not unless I sell the horses ' 
 
 "Then sell them," came the quick answer. 
 
 "And the farm," he continued. 
 
 "Let it go, too." 
 
 "My child," said her father, as he rested his eyes stead 
 ily on her face, "of course I shall if it comes to the worst, 
 but but " and he caught himself stammering like a school 
 boy, as he gazed in the sweet, honest eyes of his daughter 
 "Anne, there is another" he stopped again, with a look of 
 positive annoyance on his clear-cut face. The twilight shad 
 ows had fallen, the lamps were lit in the hall, but still the 
 father broke not the silence. 
 
 "Cur'pony! Cur'pony! Cur'pony!" came from across the 
 meadow, as the stable boy stood in the pasture and called 
 up the yearlings for their evening meal. Around the corner 
 of a neat cabin a sprightly young negro was picking a banjo.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 27 
 
 accompanying the deep, rich notes of the instrument with a 
 voice in perfect attune "Ahoo-a, an' er-who-ah ahoo-a, an' 
 er-who-ah ahoo ahoo," sounded the voice on the still even 
 ing air, and the echoing strings of the banjo repeated 
 'ahoo ahoo!' 
 
 "But what, father?" at length asked the daughter. 
 
 "Why, my child," said the Colonel, awakening from his 
 revery, "I intended telling you before. I should have men 
 tioned it, I am sure, several days ago, only I did so hate 
 to do it. You know how it hurts me to give you up! But 
 'tis your right and privilege to hear and my duty to bear 
 the message from Capt. Sidney. A few days ago he asked 
 me for my permission to approach you on a subject." 
 
 The girl sprang up, her face crimson, her eyes ablaze. 
 
 "Your permission, father? He had better get from me 
 some token of at least a partial consent for him to approach 
 you on such a subject! Permission, indeed! Father, I hate 
 the man!" 
 
 "My, my, my!" said her father, half laughing, half as 
 tounded, "but I never saw you so stirred up, my darling! 
 Why, Sidney has been here every two or three weeks for 
 a dozen years, is twice your age, and has actually seen you 
 grow up and has never made any secret of waiting for you. 
 Rich, handsome, jovial and actually worships you! I thought 
 you two were fine friends." 
 
 "Father, Father!" exclaimed the girl, "you do not know 
 me! As your guest and friend I endured Capt. Sidney, and 
 treated him courteously. But do you think a girl has no 
 heart, no ears, no eyes? I have disdained from maiden mod 
 esty to tell you before what your one question demands of 
 me now. Would you have your daughter wed a man whose 
 excesses have even reached the ears of as unworldly a maid 
 as I? Am I to be won by a man merely because he is your 
 friend and is 'rich, handsome, jovial and worships me,' as 
 you say? I do not love him that is enough! Oh, father?"
 
 2 8 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 she said with sudden impulse, as she seated herself in his lap 
 and took his face in both her hands and laid her face against 
 his, "did not my dear mother love you? You know what I 
 mean how I mean!" and tears rolled down from her brown 
 eyes. 
 
 "By the eternal, you are right!" said the Colonel, as 
 he arose hastily, with a trace of emotion in his own voice, 
 "I hadn't thought of that! The scamp!" he repeated half 
 aloud. "I like him myself, but what am I? Only a gambler! 
 He is another a gentleman yes, a gentleman but a gam 
 bler for all that! And his excesses in other directions 
 whew! Anne!" he called, as he kissed her and started 
 into his room, "you are right always right always right. 
 I hadn't thought of that," and the door closed on his form, 
 a trifle bent, Anne thought, as she sank in a chair and wept 
 from sympathy for her father. 
 
 But there never was a girl like Anne Dinwiddie. Tears 
 did not stay with her long. She dismissed the captain with 
 a contemptuous sniff as she vigorously wiped her red nose 
 and eyes, and then she fell to thinking with her practical 
 little mind to find a way to help her father. Throwing an 
 opera shawl over her head and rounded shoulders for the 
 air was chilly she sat silently rocking and looking up at 
 the stars. Presently the big gate at the pike shut with a 
 bang and a few moments later the rhythmical feet of a saddle 
 horse played a tune as they pattered up the gravel walk. 
 On came the horseman till the animal reached the portico 
 where sat the silent figure in white, when he shied suddenly 
 to the left. The ease with which the rider retained his seat 
 showed he was accustomed to such antics from his horse, 
 and the dexterity with which he pressed a knee in the ani 
 mal's chest and whirled it about face with a twist of a firm 
 hand, made the girl's eyes sparkle with excitement. In a 
 moment the rider had bounded o'er the railing with: 
 
 "Hello! Anne, is that the way you frighten off youi
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 29 
 
 beaux? Sit out here in the dim light with just enough white 
 about your head to frighten their horses to death, and have 
 them plunging all about over your white pink and forget- 
 me-not beds?" 
 
 "Jim! Jim! How could you?" laughed the girl, as she 
 arose and shook his hand. "Didn't I tell you you should not 
 come over to-night? As Uncle Jack, the carriage driver 
 would say, you are a positive 'nuessence.' " 
 
 "O, Anne," he said, with boyish enthusiasm, as he drew 
 a chair up close to hers, "I just couldn't stay away. I have 
 thought of you all day. 'Jim Wetherall,' said the old gen 
 tleman when he came into the lower field, where I was look 
 ing after the hands plowing and let them all go down to the 
 spring for water and waste an hour idling just because I was 
 thinking of you, 'Jim Wetherall, if you ain't in love you are 
 just a lunatic, and that's all. Why the mischef don't you look 
 after your business? And is this the way you let them run 
 corn rows over a hillside, with such a fall as to make a gully 
 the first hard rain that comes?' 
 
 "After supper I saddled Troup, and thinks I, Til just 
 ride over and look at the light in her window.' But may you 
 never speak to me again if the rascal Troup didn't turn in 
 the gate before I knew it, and here I am. And, oh, Anne, 
 if you only knew how I love you " 
 
 But Jim's mouth was stopped with a hand over it 
 which he proceeded to kiss, to the fair owner's chagrin for 
 she immediately withdrew it and gave the kisser a rap on 
 the head with the other one. 
 
 "Jim! Jim! Don't be a goose," she said. "You don't 
 know how sad and worried I am to-night," and she pro 
 ceeded to tell him all her father's troubles. 
 
 Jim and Anne had been playmates from early youth. The 
 boy, though really a man now, had never concealed anything 
 from her not even the fact that he always had and always 
 would love her. Anne had laughed at him in her sisterly
 
 30 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 way; had helped him in his studies as he grew up for she 
 had many advantages over Jim, whose father was an honest 
 and well-to-do farmer. The boy, under her influence, had 
 even gone to college and managed to graduate, but was 
 noted more for his hard horse sense, as they called it, and 
 his frank honesty, than for any great leaning toward the 
 classics or any diplomatic erudition. "The only classic I 
 want," he said to Anne, after he came back home, "is you. 
 When I think of you, Anne," he cried, "I see all the god 
 desses and nymphs and queens of old. You seem to me like 
 one of those Grecian temples I read of, with pillars so stately 
 and everything so perfect. You seem to belong to another 
 age, so different from mine so far away, and sweet and 
 dreamy, and high above me, and for which my soul yearns. 
 Oh, Anne, can't you love me?" 
 
 And Anne would laugh and tell him, "Maybe, Jim, some 
 day." And the big fellow would be satisfied and glad to be 
 allowed to see her now and then and bide his time. 
 
 "Forty thousand dollars is a big sum to owe," said the 
 now thoughtful Jim, when Anne had told him all and Jim 
 knew by the way she spoke that she was silently weeping. 
 Then she said softly: 
 
 "Jim, who could have taken such an advantage of father; 
 Perhaps it was fair as far as gambling goes, Jim, but you 
 know how honorable and fair father is, and and I've heard 
 those kind always lose in the end, you know, Jim." 
 
 Jim was silent. "Must I really tell you, Anne?" he said 
 at length. "Well, it is none other than Capt. Sidney." 
 
 "Oh, Jim!" said Anne, in astonishment, "how did you 
 know?" 
 
 "Never mind," he said, quietly. "It would not be alto 
 gether manly for me to tell you, Anne, but I know it for 
 a certainty; besides I've an idea in my head that may help 
 us." 
 
 "Oh. Jim! do, do help us dear Jim." she said impul-
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 31 
 
 sively, "you are clever and know so much that is practical, 
 and are so honest and kind and true. Oh, Jim, if you can 
 help us I never will forget " 
 
 "Anne!" he said, catching her hand, "God knows I would 
 die for you or the Colonel, either. He's been the kindest, 
 best friend I ever had. He's a gentleman every inch of 
 him and you, oh, Anne, I would die if you were out of my 
 life! But," he said, suddenly checking himself, "please for 
 give me this is no time for that. What a goose I am!" 
 After a pause: "Anne, I'm going now. My head is too 
 full of a plan I have to talk any longer. A calamity such 
 as you have mentioned would simply wreck your's and the 
 Colonel's life and mine, too," he added, slowly, "if your's 
 was. We all have a chance some time in life to show what 
 we're made of," he continued, "and now is my time. And 
 I am going in heart and soul. I'll show you I'm no feather 
 bed friend, but one who can love in prosperity and love 
 harder in adversity. I don't know what I can do but, 
 Anne, I'll try, for your's and the Colonel's sake even if 
 you marry another. Don't cry" for Anne was crying softly 
 "but good night. You will hear from me again," and the 
 brave fellow was in the saddle. 
 
 "Jim!" 
 
 The horse was spurred up close under the balcony. 
 
 "Jim!" 
 
 And the golden head bent over the railing, till the red 
 lips touched his ear, and the smell of her perfumed hair 
 seemed to the bewildered Jim like the glory of the fragrant 
 locks of all the goddesses of ancient Greece. 
 
 "Jim, dear Jim! I I think I love you now. Good 
 night!" And she was gone, while Jim sat in mute silence 
 and inexpressible happiness, looking up in the eyes of two 
 stars that twinkled above where her own had just been. And 
 looking, Jim wondered whether he was really alive or horse 
 back, or was only a spirit of joy winging its way to the two
 
 32 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 stars which shone above him in the place of Anne's eyes. 
 
 A moment later Troup, his saddle horse, became con 
 vinced there was no spirit there, for he felt a vigorous thrust 
 from anything but a spiritual foot in his side, and he bounded 
 away in a gallop. 
 
 III. 
 
 For several days Anne was in a state of quiet happi 
 ness. She did not see Jim for a week she did not want to. 
 She did not know what was going to happen, but she felt 
 as if something was, and that all was safe. She sang around 
 the house like a bird. It all flashed over her one day when 
 her father said at the tea table: 
 
 "That boy Jim Wetherall is a trump. He has got more 
 horse sense in a minute than I have in a year!" Anne looked 
 up in astonishment. The Colonel continued. "You know 
 Ole Mistis is entered in the Cumberland Futurity, worth 
 $50,000 to the winner. I have never regarded her as a prom 
 ising candidate, and of late she has been going so badly 
 in her work under the new jockey that I had abandoned the 
 idea of paying the final entrance fee. But Jim you know 
 how interested he has always been in the horses, Anne! 
 (but Anne was busy with her teacup, while her cheeks were 
 scarlet) seems to be more so of late, and has been over 
 every day. He soon convinced me the mare was shod wrong 
 and that the boy Brutus knew nothing about his business. 
 'Why, Colonel,' he said, in his blunt way, 'he shouldn't ride 
 a speckled steer to water for me the mare is fast, very fast 
 he doesn't understand her.' And what do you reckon?" 
 Anne could not imagine! "Why, he is actually working 
 her himself, with Jake as a rider, and I never saw such im 
 provement, Anne," he said as he came around to her chair. 
 "If I could only win that stake it would be the happiest day 
 of my life. N y ever more would I race a horse never again 
 would I gamble. I feel almost upset of late. I am weak 
 and peevish, vacillating and unnerved. Last night," he said,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 33 
 
 slowly, and with more seriousness than was his custom, "I 
 dreamed of your dear mother, child, and her sweet, dark 
 eyes seemed full of pity and sorrow," and Col. Dinwiddie 
 walked slowly over to the portrait which hung on the wall 
 and stood looking at it in silent admiration, while his daugh 
 ter came up and put her arms around him with, "Never 
 mind, father; don't be worried. Just let Jim take charge 
 he is clever and honest, and will surprise you yet." 
 
 The morning of the greatest race ever run on Tennessee 
 soil came. The city was crowded with visitors; excitement 
 was at fever heat. 
 
 "We haven't a chance in the world, Anne," said Col. 
 Dinwiddie to his daughter, as she sat in the grand stand, 
 dazed and confused with the mighty crowd around her and 
 a terrible weight on her heart. "It is not so bad as that, 
 Anne," said Jim, who had come up to whisper a few words 
 of encouragement before the horses started; "there is always 
 a chance in a horse race. The best one may break his leg 
 in ten feet of the wire. So don't be altogether wretched," 
 and he went off to look after the mare. 
 
 Two o'clock! The crowd was immense. Never before 
 was assembled such a galaxy of beauty and gallantry in the 
 Volunteer state. The riders were weighed, horses handi 
 capped and all sent up the stretch. 
 
 Jake was delighted when told he was to ride ole Mistis. 
 He was ignorant of the fact that the mare was thought to 
 be in no fix to win and that the betting was 10 to I against 
 her. 
 
 "All enybody's got ter do," he said to himself, "is to 
 set on her and guide 'er. I'd like to see 'em beat ole Mistis!" 
 
 But when his master came to him in the stretch to give 
 him instructions even the little darkey saw something was 
 wrong. He had never seen the Colonel look that way be 
 fore. His eyes were stern, but expressionless; his voice 
 husky with emotion, and the quick spirit of command
 
 34 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 seemed to have given way to the evil genius of despair. 
 Quiet and commanding as ever, but Jake saw he was in no 
 mood to be crossed and all but guessed his master had 
 made up his mind for defeat and ruin. 
 
 "Jake!" 
 
 "Yes, Marster," said Jake. 
 
 "Listen to what I tell you, and do as I tell you. Do you 
 sec that bay horse there?" 
 
 "Yes, Marster," and Jake cast his keen eye contemptu 
 ously on the bay. 
 
 "Well, Jake, they say he is going to beat my mare. If 
 he does" he clutched Jake's arm tightly, so tight the boy 
 winced, and his master's voice sunk to a whisper as he said 
 "If they do, Jake, I am ruined, ruined, ruined!" and the boy 
 almost quailed before the stern expression that gleamed from 
 his master's eyes. Then he resumed: "Now listen; the 
 bay will set the pace, but do you keep up with him easy 
 as you can, but up to him stay with him. It's four miles, 
 and a death struggle; but the mare can go the route. When 
 you come in the stretch at the last mile, take this rawhide"- 
 drawing a keen whip "and whip her from the last eighth 
 home. It's your only chance, and not much at that. Do 
 you hear me?" for Jake gazed at him in astonishment. 
 
 "Marster," slowly "you sho'ly don't 'spec' me ter 
 whip ole Mistis wid dis?" apologetically. 
 
 "Expect you?" thundered the Colonel. "Did you hear 
 what I said? Do as I tell you or I'll have the overseer to 
 flay you alive after this race. Do you hear, now?" 
 
 "Yes, Marster," said Jake, as he took the whip and 
 turned the mare into line. But to himself he said: 
 
 "Whut! Me beat ole Mistis wid dis thing? Ole Mis 
 tis my Ole Mistis? I'll take it myself fust! Sho'ly Marster 
 ain't at hissef" and he looked around to see where the bay 
 horse, Loraine, was. At that moment Jim Wetherall came 
 up.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 35 
 
 "Jake," he said, "what did the Colonel tell you?" Jake 
 told him. "That's all right; now listen to me. Do you see 
 that path of firm clay there in the center of the track? Well, 
 it runs from the last eighth to the wire. I worked all the 
 morning with ten teams to put it there. The track is too 
 soft for the mare, Jake; and, besides, you know how she is. 
 She's foolish about things at the old home, ain't she, Jake?" 
 
 "Dat she is, Marse Jim." 
 
 "And we've run her on the clay path in the orchard 
 for weeks, haven't we, Jake? Well, now, boy, what we want 
 to do is to make the old mare feel at home. When you 
 come round the last time throw her on this path the foot 
 ing is good cut her loose, and I don't believe any of them 
 can head you!" 
 
 Jake nodded. "And don't forget this," he said, "I've 
 got a thousand dollars in my pocket to buy you if you win 
 this race, and, on the word of Jim Wetherall, I'll set you 
 free. Do you understand me, Jake?" 
 
 The negro's eyes fell. "I'll win it eny way, ef I can, 
 Marse Jim. Whut I wanter be free fur whut'd I do erway 
 frum ole Marster an' Ole Mistis?" And Jake waited for the 
 word. 
 
 But all were not ready, and the longer they waited the 
 more intense became the boy's anxiety. Left to himself in a 
 crowd of rough jockeys, who did what they could to frighten 
 the mare and annoy the boy, it was almost pathetic to see 
 him reach over and stroke the great gray's neck and say to 
 her: "Doncher be afeerd, ole Mistis dis am Jake little 
 Jake," and then he would add, softly and tenderly, "He ain't 
 gwineter hit you my ole Mistis my ole Mistis." 
 
 And what a wonderful change came over the mare! 
 Not to-day, as she had been on former occasions, was she 
 nervous and unruly, whirling 'round and 'round, endeavor 
 ing to break away, or refusing to line up. Her entire nature 
 seemed changed Jake's presence was magical. She stood
 
 3 6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 perfectly still, quiet and apparently indifferent and only in 
 her quick, glancing eye and the almost imperceptible play 
 of her ears could a close observer have seen the great strug 
 gle going on within her a struggle to control the frantic 
 desire for wild flight a desire inherited from an hundred 
 ancestors now fighting for possession of her nature. It was 
 a grand example, even in a brute, of will conquering pas 
 sion, of dumb intelligence controlling brute force, of a small 
 ray of human reason, playing like an electric spark through 
 clouds of tumultuous darkness and waiting for the explosion 
 that would make the thunderbolt! 
 
 The starter is talking Jake knows not what, but he 
 gathers the reins tighter. The flag drops; the ball of living, 
 flying flesh is shot: a roar answers back from the grand 
 stand which says, "They're off! They're off!" 
 
 Jake had great confidence in his master's judgment. 
 Ignoring every other horse, he kept his small, black eyes on 
 the big, galloping bay, and his swaggering, insolent rider. 
 Unused to the crowd and the flying speed, the sensation of 
 riding so fast, for the first quarter, was almost painful to 
 Jake he appeared to himself to be flying in the air, tied 
 to a projectile. The roar of the wind in his ears hurt them; 
 he dodged instinctively, and with a silent prayer placed his 
 mount on the side of the bay and held her in. The rider of 
 Loraine was an old jockey and knew as well as the gam 
 blers what horse he had to beat, as well as the almost invin 
 cible prowess of his own horse there was nothing there 
 could beat him! 
 
 "Don't ride so fast, little nig." he shouted to Jake in 
 derision. "Gib de rest of us a showin'; we've got fo' miles 
 to go; don't pump us out de fust mile." 
 
 But this disturbed not Jake. If a negro has one quality 
 overtopping all others it is his infinite patience. And Jake 
 was a true type of his race. He said nothing, but no snake
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 37 
 
 in the swamp had a quicker eye, or knew better when to 
 strike. 
 
 As the Colonel had said, Loraine had set the pace, and 
 it was hot enough. "But look, Anne," he said, "how the 
 mare goes to his girth and stays there! See with what a 
 bold and assuring stride she flies along easy, graceful, un 
 concerned. I never saw her run so! Great God! if she 
 will only win!" And Anne, when she saw the gallant fight, 
 cried softly to herself and sent up a silent prayer. 
 
 "Cum on little woolly-head," said Loraine's rider, as they 
 passed the first mile, "dis am gwinter be er hoss-race. I'm 
 jes playing wid you now to get your wind by an' by I'll leave 
 you an' de ole mare in de home-stretch to pick grass." But 
 the satyr imp said never a word, and the gray mare, as she 
 pulled anon on the bit, told even her inexperienced rider that 
 she had a reserve supply of speed. But how much? And 
 did the bay have more? 
 
 On they went! Two miles! Jake knew it by a second 
 roar from the stand as they passed. He tried to look forward 
 but the wind cut his eyes; he recognized only a black mass 
 of shouting humanity. Loraine's driver still rode uncon 
 cerned and indifferent. Jake dreaded the moment when he 
 would act, when he'd send the bay for the death struggle. 
 The boy's heart beat like a drum, his breath came in gasps, 
 his throat was dry! "Cum on little nig," he heard no more, 
 for the bay was pulling away, and the rushing air was an 
 organ hurricane playing a thousand tunes in his ear. The 
 sunshine flashed a thousand kaleidoscopic colors before his 
 eyes! He seemed to be flying, but whether backward or for 
 ward he knew not. "Cum on little" but he barely caught 
 the sound, so far away did Loraine's rider appear to be. 
 Another roar! Three miles! The track was a small white 
 line stretched in the air. Jake heard the shouts of the riders 
 behind him, the slashing of many whips as the keen instru 
 ments of torture fell on straining flanks. His own mare
 
 38 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 scudded before the field of noise behind her as a sea-bird 
 before the hurricane's roar, and yet she seemed to get no 
 nearer the demon bay that flew fearlessly along. She pulled 
 on her bit! Instinct seemed to tell her she must go now or 
 never. "Not yit, ole Mistis, not yit!" said her ashen-faced 
 driver, as he bent to her stride and patted her sweat-covered 
 neck. At the last half! It seemed to Jake they had gone 
 a day's journey that time had stopped and eternity had be 
 gun since he shot away on that frenzied ride. How many 
 long miles yet lay between him, it seemed, and where Miss 
 Anne sat, pale and statue-like, in the blurred bank of human 
 ity under the grand stand! The last quarter! Jake raised in 
 his stirrups. "Now, ole Mistis, go!" he fairly shouted, as 
 he gave her full head for the first time. The mare responded 
 with a gallant leap another and another but no nearer 
 did she come to the bay. Loraine had been turned. loose, 
 too, and increased the distance between them with demoni 
 acal swiftness! Like a death-stab the thought went through 
 Jake's mind for the first time that he could not win. The 
 tears gushed to his eyes, the blood seemed to congeal in his 
 very heart; he clutched the saddle to retain his seat. Loraine 
 was just ahead; they were now at the last eighth. Frenzied 
 frantic blinded bewildered, Jake knew not what he 
 did. In despair he raised his whip, it flashed a moment in 
 the sunlight, then went whistling across the track. He had 
 thrown it away! But look! Loraine now fairly flew! He 
 seemed to know the time had come. His own mare? She 
 was falling back. He knew it, he felt it he was beaten! 
 Overcome with grief and shame, he forgot all about Loraine. 
 He thought only of the old home, of his love for his master, 
 of Miss Anne, of his idolatrous worship of the mare, 
 mingled with the fact that he had ruined them all. A clay 
 path flashed under the mare's nose, and then he thought of 
 Jim Wetherall's words of his promised freedom. Crazed 
 with fear and shame, he guided the mare in the path, let out
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 39 
 
 all his rein, and flung himself forward on her neck, clinging 
 to her mane like an imp on a flying cloud. Thrusting two 
 brown heels into her flanks, he burst out crying, and in 
 tones that moved even the victorious rider of Loraine, he 
 sobbed: "Ole Mistis! Ole Mistis! Dis am Jake little Jake! 
 Go home, Ole Mistis! Go home, Ole Mistis!!! Go home!!!" 
 
 To the surprise of the spectators, who now looked on 
 the victory of Loraine as complete, the mare answered this 
 pathetic call with a burst of speed unheard of on the track 
 even to this day. A thousand demons of determination 
 blazed in her eyes. One two three leaps she made, like 
 a startled doe at the death bleat of her fawn, and in a twink 
 ling she had cleared the distance between herself and the 
 bay. The crowd roared in a tumult of excitement men 
 climbed on one another's shoulders the gray mare came like 
 a rocket! Loraine's driver, startled and now thoroughly in 
 earnest, went to his whip. It flashed a moment in the air 
 and fell with stinging emphasis on the bay's shoulders! The 
 animal swerved that blow was his ruin, for the gallant bay, 
 never before having felt a blow, swerved slightly to avoid 
 it. Only a yard or two but yards are miles when seconds 
 are hurricanes! Only a moment of indecision but inde 
 cision is mutiny when stakes are kingdoms! Like a swallow 
 before the blast, the gray mare thrust her long neck under 
 the wire and the race was won! 
 
 A moment later the crowd of shouting, frenzied people 
 ceased shouting to a man, when the fleet animal, having 
 no one to guide her, turned so suddenly into the drawgate 
 that opened on the infield as to hurl Jake off, and left him 
 mangled on the track. Later they stood, a surging crowd, 
 around a beautiful girl seated on the ground and holding a 
 bruised and bleeding face in her lap, upon which her own 
 tears fell. The boy opened his eyes and half unconsciouslj 
 began to murmur: '"Most home, Ole Mistis! 'Most home, 
 Ole Mistis! 'Most home!" Presently a ray of conscious-
 
 4 o 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 ness came back to his lusterless orbs, as he recognized his 
 young mistress and exclaimed: "Oh, Miss Anne, did we 
 win?" and interpreting correctly the half joyous smile that, 
 despite her tears, shone 'round her mouth at thought of their 
 victory, he closed his eyes and said: "Thang God, an' I 
 didn't tech 'er a lick. Tell marster I'm sorry but I 
 couldn't hit 'er!" For a moment he was silent and then 
 his lips moved again feebly, for the life spark was nearly 
 gone: " 'Blessed am de merciful fur dey shall obtain 
 mercy' " and the little slave was free forever. 
 
 THE BLUE-GRASS PLOT. 
 
 OTHE blue-grass plot, the blue-grass plot, 
 j Where I played in the days long gone, 
 Where the sweet grass grew 'neath the morning dew 
 
 And my life was a summer morn. 
 The wild-rose spread o'er the porch over head 
 
 And the swallows chirped sweet in their flight, 
 But the birds are fled and the roses are dead 
 And I'm far from the old home to-night. 
 
 O, the blue-grass plot, in the old back lot, 
 
 How I long to be there once more, 
 With the colts in the shade the elm tree made, 
 
 And my mother's form at the door. 
 Where the brook brawled along, with its sweet glad song, 
 
 And I played with my dog in his glee, 
 Till I thought all the gleam of the sun and the stream 
 
 Was made for my dog and for me. 
 
 O, the blue-grass plot, in the old back lot, 
 How I long for your cool, quiet shade! 
 When the sun went down and the crescent crown
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 
 
 Of the moon 'rose over the glade, 
 How we romped on the sheen of thy dewy green 
 
 With a shout and a laughter wild, 
 'Till called to our beds where three weary heads 
 
 Soon slept the sweet sleep of the child. 
 
 O, the blue-grass plot, the blue-grass plot, 
 
 O the mem'ry of childhood days! 
 'Tis bright as light in a cheerless night 
 
 "Tis sweet as the hearth-stone blaze. 
 It comes with the thrill of a form that is still 
 
 And a voice now hushed forever, 
 To point our soul to that better goal 
 
 The Grass-plot over the River. 
 
 TO A SWEET PEA. 
 (Which, climbing in a rose-bush, had escaped the first frost.) 
 
 COME, little fairy, with your outstretched wings, 
 Tiptoeing, with your cloudless eyes a-dream, 
 Why art thou here where late the bluebird sings, 
 
 And all thy sisters drunk of Lethe's stream? 
 Dost fear to die? 'Tis but a mental pain 
 And each must sleep if each would wake again. 
 
 Ah, child of rainbow and the setting sun, 
 
 Flirting all summer where the poppies grow, 
 
 Death came before your little task was done? 
 
 (He has that way as we poor mortals know!) 
 
 Then why seek shelter 'neath the rose's breast? 
 
 For each must sleep if each have perfect rest. 
 
 Afraid to go clad in that gaudy gown?
 
 42 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Poor little dancing spirit of wild joy! 
 God made thee such; nor will He ever frown 
 
 On any work of His, tho* sad th' alloy. 
 Go as thou art, if honest be thy aim 
 For God made honor everywhere the same. 
 
 Nor fear to go! On some far twinkling star 
 There is a home for butterflies like thee 
 
 As sterner worlds for sterner spirits are, 
 So fairer worlds for sweeter beings be. 
 
 Good-by! Some day I'll catch thy faint perfume, 
 
 And know it bloweth from immortal bloom. 
 
 A CAVALRY DRILL IN OLD TENNESSEE. 
 
 FALL in, gentlemen, fall in! Two erbreast there, an' no 
 foolishness! Tom Riddick, can't you keep that mule 
 still? Come, come, gentlemen, do fall in at the command! 
 Do git into line! Promptness is the fust thing in milertary." 
 It was a balmy Saturday evening in a village of Ten 
 nessee a drill day with the boys about the year 1848. To 
 correctly understand this sketch, and it is taken from nature, 
 reader, we must first ask you to remember that from its 
 earliest history Tennessee has been called the "volunteer 
 state," an appellation won by the promptness of her sons 
 to respond to their country's call for volunteers. In fact, 
 the state may almost be said to have been born fighting, if 
 such a term may be applied to an abstract commonwealth, 
 for certain it is, that her sons played a conspicuous part in 
 the revolutionary war, before the then "western territory of 
 North Carolina" had been divided off into the present state 
 of Tennessee. After that war the aggressive spirit of the 
 warlike tribes of Indians which occupied the beautiful coun 
 try of middle and west Tennessee and the fine virgin land
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 43 
 
 of the Gulf States, assisted in no small degree in keeping 
 up that military spirit so earnestly begun in the earlier days. 
 It needed only the fiery spirit of Andrew Jackson to firmly 
 fix the fighting spirit of the state, and in him it received the 
 full measure of all that was needed yes, and more. The 
 head and front of all this military enthusiasm was centered in 
 the infantry musters, cavalry drills being rarer, and, we be 
 lieve, not often attempted till the period directly following 
 the Mexican war, and then not to the extent of the old 
 musters. The following account given us by an octo 
 genarian of the good old times we have endeavored faithfully 
 to narrate. If it appears a little rough, reader, pray remem 
 ber that those were rough and ready times, and that to 
 attempt to describe the drill without giving the language and 
 personnel of the drillers would be like painting a battle scene 
 and leaving out the blood. 
 
 "Fall in, gentlemen, fall in!" 
 
 This command came from Col. Dick Posey, a fine old 
 gentleman of sixty years, who had seen service in the war of 
 1812 and the Mexican war, brave, honest, simple and unaf 
 fected, but who had forgotten all his military learning except 
 a proud and martial bearing, and that "all cavalrymen must 
 turn out their toes while riding." On this particular evening 
 the Colonel's bearing was truly grand, the occasion being one 
 of great importance to him; for aside from the fact that he 
 was proud of the military position he held and the reputation 
 he had made in the war, it was well known that the Colonel 
 was a candidate for the state legislature, and much of his 
 success depended on the manner in which he displayed his 
 knowledge of war. He was mounted on a long, slim, raw- 
 boned black mare, whose every rib could be counted, but as 
 fat as a nervous three-quarter thoroughbred could well be 
 with the saddle scarcely ever off of her during the day, and as 
 often as once a week good for a half-night's chase after the 
 hounds. She carried a high head and a rat-tail, and was so
 
 44 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 thin in the girth that the Colonel could almost wrap his long 
 legs around her. Withal, she was a great fool and ready to 
 shy at the slightest provocation, a trick which gave her 
 owner the opportunity he wanted to show off his skill as a 
 rider. 
 
 To the Colonel's side was buckled a long saber that 
 nearly touched the ground, balanced by a pistol in a 
 holster that looked large enough to be a leather coffin for a 
 baby mummy. This pistol, by the way, was a character 
 that we cannot, in justice, pass over without a word as to its 
 individuality. It was loaded by means of powder, balls and 
 caps, and was nearly as heavy as a sporting gun of to-day. 
 Its peculiarity lay in the fact that it was exceedingly "touch- 
 ous" about going off, and if loaded too heavily, when fired, 
 every chamber went off simultaneously, the balls flying in 
 every direction except straight forward. It required more 
 skill to fire it without killing everybody on each side of it 
 than it now requires to properly fire a Catling or a Hotch- 
 skiff. But to return to the Colonel. A homespun suit, dyed 
 with copperas, a slouched hat and feather and cavalry boots 
 completed his attire. 
 
 His company consisted of fifty or more farmers mounted 
 on nearly every beast that the soil of the state would grow. 
 Jim McHyde, the wit of the village, had even ridden in on a 
 steer, decorated with cow-bells; and, suddenly rushing out 
 from the thicket behind the only "grocery" in town, he 
 plunged into the ranks with such a clang and shout as to 
 stampede the entire company for a moment. As the occasion 
 was one of more or less fun, Jim was ordered out, his steer 
 turned loose, and Jim himself was told to get up the old 
 cannon, brought back from Mexico, and fire it after the drill 
 was over, a part of the military exercises scrupulously carried 
 out at every drill, chiefly to impress the importance of the 
 occasion on the small boys and "women folks" of the sur 
 rounding country. The company had been coming in since
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 45 
 
 twelve o'clock. The grocery, nowadays euphoniously called 
 the saloon, had done a rushing business. Several horse 
 swaps had taken place, there had been three "quarter-horse 
 races" down the main street of the village, and a fight or two 
 was not omitted from the regular program. Many of the 
 company had ridden in on brood mares, and as it was the 
 spring of the year these had brought their colts along with 
 them. Each colt had been carefully criticised by a bunch of 
 judges, while its proud owner enthusiastically pointed out its 
 fine points and expatiated on its breeding. Finally, the com 
 pany had all assembled, and after mounting, Colonel Posey 
 advanced towards the bunch, exclaiming: 
 
 "Fall in now, gentlemen, fall in! Two erbreast an' set 
 straight in the saddle. Git in quick an' turn out yer toes/' 
 and he rode behind the bunch of men, mares and mules. 
 
 At this command there was a general spurring and rush 
 as each one endeavored to get into line with military prompt 
 ness, but no one seemed to know where the line was and how 
 to get into it, and to add to the general confusion, the colts 
 got mixed up and rushed around neighing for their respect 
 ive dams. 
 
 "Colonel," said Dick Thompson, who was mounted on 
 a small grey mule, "hadn't these here colts better be penned 
 fust? One ov 'em is here pesterin' my ole mule mighty," he 
 remarked, as several of the colts in the general confusion 
 were going around nudging their noses under the flanks of 
 any four-legged beast they could find. 
 
 "A great idee, Dick," said the Colonel. "Gentlemen, all 
 them that's mounted on brood mares will please go into 
 Cooper's stable yard and shut in the colts." At this, for 
 twenty minutes there was the greatest confusion in getting 
 each colt to follow its dam into the stable yard, and much 
 more in slipping the dam out and leaving the colt behind; 
 but it was finally accomplished. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, as he rode around
 
 46 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 the bunch again, "form inter two straight lines; set straight 
 in yer saddles, and turn out yer toes! Yes, gentlemen, no 
 foolin' now. Lay erside yer pranks, git inter line, set 
 straight" riding down the line very erect "in yer saddles 
 and turn out yer whoa, Molly! yer toes. Dick, set straight 
 there, won't you? Git inter line, boys; fall inter line!" 
 
 "Colonel, there ain't no line to fall into," said Dick, 
 chagrined at being personally mentioned in the matter 
 "how kin a feller fall into a thing that ain't?" 
 
 "That's about so, Dick," said the Colonel; "you're right. 
 Here, Josh Giddens!" seizingjosh's horse by the bit "keep 
 right still. Now, boys, form side and side to Josh Giddens. 
 Don't git too close, now; leave room to use your saber arm 
 and to turn out yer toes. Here, boys, help Dick to pull that 
 mule into line dammer mule, I say" seeing Dick's mule 
 holding back and rolling the white of his eyes around at the 
 crowd on each side of him. "That's right; now form a second 
 line behind this one good ergin! That's er good platoon 
 hold yer hosses still! Stop talkin' in ranks! there, now. 
 gentlemen, don't bring enny more touchous horses here 
 don't do it war means killin', but it don't mean gettin' yer 
 head kicked off by some hoss in yer own line. (This on ac 
 count of a gray mare letting fly both heels at an inquisitive 
 mule behind her.) Now, gentlemen, have yer formed ?"- 
 riding down the line and inspecting it. 
 
 "Yes, yes; well, that's pritty good, pritty good. A fine- 
 looking body of men equal to any I saw in Mexico. Now, 
 gentlemen, pay strict attention to the commands set straight 
 in yer saddles and turn out yer toes hold yer pieces right 
 set straight look square to the front turn out yer ' 
 
 Bang!!! 
 
 This discharge came from the old cannon which Jim 
 McHyde, in a spirit of fun and backed by the boys of the 
 village, had drawn up under an oak tree in the rear of the 
 company, and, having loaded it with a half pound of powder,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 47 
 
 and waited till the company was intently interested in the 
 Colonel's instructions, had quietly applied a red-hot iron to 
 the fuse as he stood behind the tree, and watched the effect 
 the discharge would have on the company in front. 
 
 And it was startling. All were country horses, unused to 
 battle's grim roar, and as the fearful discharge thundered in 
 their rear, many whirled round to face the dread monste-, 
 but the most of them were seized with a keen desire to get 
 out of the way. Dick's gray mule shot forward as if he had 
 been the projectile itself, and many of the others followed 
 suit. The Colonel's mare, much to her owner's disgust, 
 whirled, and, fixing both eyes and ears on the cloud of 
 smoke, seemed afraid to turn her back and run, but imme 
 diately began to back off down the road with surprising agil 
 ity, leaving her rider powerless to stop her. When fifty yards 
 down the road she concluded she was far enough to turn 
 tail without being devoured by the unknown monster; so, 
 seeing a convenient corner, she suddenly whirled, nearly 
 unseating her rider, and made frantic efforts to get away. 
 It took twenty minutes to restore order and place Jim 
 McHyde under arrest, which the Colonel did without delay, 
 punctuated with language more impressive than elegant. As 
 the only safe place was the rear end of the bar-room, forty 
 of the company immediately volunteered their services to 
 take the luckless Jim there and keep him till further orders. 
 Two were detailed, and Jim was forced to "treat" them on 
 arrival. 
 
 The arrest of Jim satisfied all parties, and they again 
 formed in lines. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the colonel, "let's all be quiet. 
 The unexpected very often happens in war, an' we must be 
 prepared. But the man who violates the rules always gets his 
 jes' dues." (Here the company looked longingly toward the 
 bar-room, where Jim and his guards could be plainly seen 
 taking a three-fingered drink, and they were not fully con-
 
 4 8 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 vinced that Jim's punishment was a just reward.) "But let 
 us to duty," he added. "Now, I am fust goin' to drill you in 
 the use of the saber, and all them that's got guns will bring 
 'cm to a half cock." (Here there was a general clicking down 
 the rank. Many of them had, contrary to cavalry rules, 
 brought their flint and steel muskets, and Ab Perkins' had 
 only one notch on it, it was so old, and when at full cock 
 the steel was almost below the stock itself.) "A half-cock, 
 Mr. Perkins, if you please," said the Colonel; "lower your 
 hammer to the first notch." 
 
 "Kurnel, my ole gun ain't got but one notch," said Ab, 
 and he added, with dry humor: "She goes to h 1 after fire, 
 but when she gits it she comes back with er bucketful." 
 
 At this wit of Ab the entire company broke out into a 
 laugh,' in which the Colonel joined, and as his gun had so bad 
 a reputation and visited places of questionable resort, Ab 
 was allowed to take it out of ranks and go and help keep 
 Jim McHyde straight. 
 
 "Kur'nel," said Sam Johnston, a small, red-headed war 
 rior, who was almost too full to sit straight in the saddle, 
 "don't you think sump'n's wrong with my old gun?" 
 (holding it up, cocking and recocking it with a most puzzled 
 look on his face). "She 'peers to click pow'ful ku'is 
 to me." 
 
 "Yes, Sam," said the Colonel, who recognized the fact 
 that Sam and his gun were both too heavily loaded, "and 
 v - may both go off," an order he was not long carrying out, 
 but followed with the taunts of the company and such re 
 marks as "Sit straight in yer saddle, Sam!" "Turn out your 
 toes, Sam!" and "Look at ole wool hat an' yeller briches on 
 a billy goat!" But Sam headed for the grocery and rode on. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the commander, "as we've got 
 rid of all them that can't drill properly an' the rest of us is 
 gentlemen and horsemen, let's get down to business. Now, 
 as captain of this mounted cavalry company, it is my duty
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 49 
 
 in fact, I am commanded by the laws of Tennessee" here 
 he pulled out a paper from his pocket and read: 'To properly 
 drill the same in all the requirements of cavalry drill and 
 practice.' "Now. gentlemen," said the Colonel as he rode 
 slowly down the line and seemed at a loss to know exactly 
 where to start, "the fust, an', in fact, the only rule that I ever 
 heard of in the Mexican war was the one that we useter have 
 an' practice. I never read it out of a book, but somehow or 
 other we all kinder centered to it, an' its the only rule I know 
 of. I kin give you that rule in er few words, for it's all I 
 know," he said apologetically, "erbout cavalry, an' it's jes' 
 this: Set straight in yer saddle, turn out yer toes, an' ride at 
 the enemy!" and he emphasized the rule, as he repeated it 
 slowly, by shaking his index finger and gravely gesticulating. 
 
 "Colonel, don't we have to arm and mount fust?" 
 
 This question came from the ranks from Major Peeler 
 a gentleman about the age of the Colonel, who had also 
 served in the Mexican war and who thought he knew quite as 
 much of military matters as the Colonel. Out of ranks he 
 was never happier than when telling of the various battles 
 he was engaged in; in ranks he took every occasion to cor 
 rect any errors the Colonel might make, much to that gen 
 tleman's disgust. In fact, he had been a candidate against 
 the Colonel for the captaincy of this company, but being self- 
 important and arrogant and a poor "mixer," he had met the 
 fate of all such in this free country and been left in the ranks. 
 
 "Armed and mounted fust!" exclaimed the Colonel hot 
 ly. "Why, we're supposed to be mounted or else we'd be 
 nothing but infantry! Look er here, major," said the Colonel 
 with a good deal of spirit, "ef you want to drill this company, 
 sir, I'll send in my resignation." 
 
 "Go on, Colonel, go on!" shouted the company, who 
 were beginning to get tired. "Of course you're right. 
 Cal'v'ry bound to be mounted! Ennybody knows that. Go 
 on, don't resign, drill us and let's go home."
 
 5 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "Well, then, gentlemen," said the Colonel, calming down 
 at this manifestation of his popularity with the boys, "as I 
 was sayin', the only rule I know is to set straight in the 
 saddle, turn out yer toes and ride at the enemy. An' right 
 in that rule is where we got the bes* of the Mexicans; for 
 their rule, es fur es I was able to see, was to hump up them 
 selves on their grass-bellied ponies an' git up and git. Yes, 
 gentlemen, by knowin' an' enforcin' this rule we whipped the 
 dirty greasers in every battle, an' by follerin' it to-morrer," 
 he added, rising in his stirrups and shaking his saber, "we 
 kin whip the whole world." Here the company yelled out its 
 applause in a long, dismal howl, which, when it had died 
 away, a squeaking voice shouted in the further rank, "Whoo- 
 raw for our rule an' Jeems K. Polk." 
 
 "So that's the fust rule," said the Colonel; "now, how to 
 do this is the next;" for the Colonel saw that as he had but 
 few rules he must try to spread out what he did have as far 
 as possible. 
 
 "First, set straight in yer saddle, like you see me" riding 
 down the line with his shoulders thrown uncomfortably back. 
 "Yer coat-buttons square between yer horse's ears, yer left 
 hand holdin' yer reins, yer right graspin' yer sword, with the 
 pint elevated about forty-five degrees, yer toes turned well 
 out, so!"And he rode down the line in great style, at sight of 
 which every man straightened himself up as near like the 
 Colonel as possible. 
 
 "Second, gentlemen, you must ride at the enemy. Now, 
 nt, gentlemen, is a very little word, but it is bigger than a 
 bombshell in battle, and means more than everything else; in 
 fact, gentlemen, it's about the chief thing of this important 
 rule, although it appears so small. Ef you'd leave out all the 
 other words in this rule, and jes' git into yer saddles an' say 
 at 'em! and then do it, you'd come mighty nigh knowin' all 
 the rules of war. Don't gallop around nor ride about, then
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 51 
 
 stop, but at, straight at, and do it dam fast, to keep yer 
 courage up!" 
 
 "How about making a detour and a flank movement?" 
 inquired the irrepressible Major Peeler. 
 
 "Detours and flank movements," repeated the Colonel, 
 sarcastically. "Them's mighty high-soundin' words, Major, 
 but they ain't worth er dam in war. Where," said he, get 
 ting excited and waving his sword, "did we ever make enny 
 detours in the Mexican war? The only detour I ever saw,'' 
 he thundered with withering sarcasm, "was when a piece of 
 an Alabama and Tennessee regiment made a detour after a 
 Mexican goose roast one night, an' got cut off from the regu 
 lar army; they came detouring back to camp the next mornin' 
 with a pack of greasers at their heels the only time in the 
 whole war that enny of our troops showed their heels to a 
 Mexican." 
 
 This last was a home thrust, for it was well known in the 
 village that the Major had been the leader of that unfortunate 
 company that went off on the raid and came home so precipi 
 tately. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, "I have told you all 
 the rules an' we'll now put 'em into practice. We'll now pro 
 ceed to march; but we won't go no further" apologetically, 
 since some of the men began to grumble about moving at 
 all "than the black-oak stump at the cross-roads an' back 
 ergin. Now, when I say 'forward,' you mustn't go forward, 
 but only prepare for it; but when I say 'march/ why jes' spur 
 up an' walk off." Here there was a visible commotion in 
 ranks, as several of the men had been sitting sideways in the 
 saddle during a part of this long discourse and they began to 
 get into proper position. "Now, let us try," resumed the 
 Colonel. 
 
 "Forward" waiting a few moments "hold on! hold on! 
 slop! stop!! Don't you recollect I said you mustn't go till I 
 said march?" This to the men eager to get off, and starting
 
 52 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 off in every kind of time at the command, forward. "Now, 
 git inter line ergin; it looks like you'll never learn ennything. 
 Why, dammit, gentlemen, you almost make me swear!" 
 
 After much confusion they again got into line. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," he continued, "please recollect an* 
 don't forgit. Be very careful. When I say march, why, move 
 off; if I say trot, why, jes' trot; if I say gallop, why, jes' gal 
 lop. This milertary business ain't nothin' but common sense 
 rigged up with a sword an' a cocked hat. Everything is 
 plain, an' don't forgit it, nor to keep yer toes turned out!" 
 
 "We won't, Colonel," came from the company. "Do let 
 us git off it's nearly sundown." 
 
 "Well, then, forward, march!" and after a good deal of 
 spurring and clucking some of the company moved off and 
 the others gradually followed suit, a sight to behold, since 
 every animal in it had a gait peculiar to its breed and the 
 wear and tear of the plow. Some went fast, some slow; some 
 paced and others trotted. The rear rank ran into the front 
 line, while the flanks became detached from the main body 
 and struck off in a separate bunch, headed for the bar-room. 
 The rest of the line was in a zig-zag condition, and its path 
 would have been the line of a worm fence moving to the gate 
 as an objective point. At this point some one left the gate of 
 Cooper's stable yard open, and the colts came tearing out, 
 whinnying and rushing into lines, hunting for their respect 
 ive dams. These came to a dead halt, with many signs of 
 satisfaction and motherly proceedings. 
 
 Now, the Colonel was a man of wonderful resources and 
 intuitive forethought. He saw that the military would have 
 to succumb to the civil unless something was done, and that 
 very quickly, to maintain the dignity of the former. It was 
 evident that Mars must give way to Venus, and that without 
 the formality of ceremony. To one less gifted than the Colo 
 nel, the day's drill would have ended in confusion and dis 
 grace. Not so with him. Riding to the front, with a look on
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 53 
 
 his face as if he had expected all this and it was a part of his 
 program, he issued a command never before heard in military 
 science nay, not even in the Mexican war. Rising in his 
 stirrups, he shouted, in his deepest voice: 
 
 "Halt, and suckle colts!" 
 
 This seemed to please everybody, including the colts, 
 after which the company took a drink around and rode off 
 to their homes, thoroughly satisfied they knew all that was 
 necessary for cavalry to learn. 
 
 THE FLAG OF GREEN'S BRIGADE. 
 (Louisiana Building, World's Fair Grounds.) 
 
 OWHEN I stood before the tatter'd flag of Green's 
 brigade, 
 
 My heart beat martial music for the thoughts my spirit made. 
 I saw the old-time flint-locks flash their deadly disks of flame, 
 I cheered the old-time ragged lines that marched in Free 
 
 dom's name, 
 I wept o'er old-time gaping wounds in manly breasts dis 
 
 played, 
 And dying eyes that last looked on the flag of Green's 
 
 brigade. 
 
 O, when I stood before the faded flag of Green's brigade, 
 I saw the blood of heroes in its every tint and shade. 
 'Neath Saratoga's steel-cold stars it led our charging line 
 And hurled back Freedom's challenge from the guns of 
 
 Brandywine, 
 
 At Germantown and Kettle Creek and Camden's leaden rain 
 Till Yorktown found it torn and shorn but still without a 
 
 stain !
 
 54 
 
 'Twas this that led the tide that swept our craft from out the 
 
 gloom 
 And hung, like Hope's blight banner, o'er the portals of the 
 
 tomb; 
 
 And, flaming like a flambeau held in Vict'ry's mailed hand, 
 It blazed the way for brightest day throughout the strug 
 
 gling land. 
 Around it flocked the Southron while the bright beams of 
 
 his blade 
 Gleamed out like stars of midnight 'round the flag of Green's 
 
 brigade. 
 
 O, as I stand before the faded flag of Green's brigade, 
 Methinks I hear the thunder of the Future's cannonade! 
 Methinks our lines are marching marching to the same old 
 
 call 
 
 And some are blue and some are gray the old flag over all. 
 And Gettysburg and Bull Run now have met, both undis 
 
 mayed, 
 To fight their country's battles 'round the flag of Green's 
 
 brigade. 
 
 THE HILLS. 
 
 I KNOW not why I love the cloud-lined hills, 
 Stretching away so faint in trembling rills 
 Of smoke-blue ether. Far away, they seem 
 Like fixed billows of the ocean like the dream 
 Of the sea, when in his mad and wild unrest 
 He longs to sleep upon his earth-bride's breast. 
 Transfixed, his waves in blue and brown they stand, 
 The image of the ocean on the land. 
 The trees that tower in the twilight far 
 Are masts of bannered ships with naked spar,
 
 PROM TENNESSEE. 55 
 
 While o'er the crest, like light-house lamp, shines out the 
 evening star. 
 
 And yet anear, I know not why to me 
 
 They seem to speak of friendship and the glee 
 
 Of youth time. Orchards, purpling 'mid October days, 
 
 And grapes that climb to kiss the sun's last rays. 
 
 Breezes that turn the sunflower's saffron sail 
 
 And billows the rip'ning grain where calls the quail. 
 
 Pools that gleam to stud the moss-grown front of rocks, 
 
 And cooling forest depths where rest the flocks. 
 
 The hills! The hills! Towering above the valley's sordid 
 
 clod, 
 
 Lifting the earth's dead level half way up to God, 
 Yet holding all in sweet communion with the mother sod. 
 
 Yon mountain, capped with its eternal snow, 
 
 Scorning all sweetness e'en the soft clouds below 
 
 It hath no charm for me. There is no love there, 
 
 No voice of birds, nor fruit-perfumed air, 
 
 Nor low, soft song from bivouaced tents of hay 
 
 The harvest reapers' song at close of day. 
 
 Alone it stands, symbol of dearth and might 
 
 Of naked power and grandeur's royal right 
 
 To look down on the tenderer things of earth 
 
 And scorn the sunshine love that gave them birth, 
 
 And blight, as with a shroud of frost, their unassuming mirth. 
 
 So may my life be like the hills. Not high 
 My hopes and plans, but midway 'twixt the sky 
 And stagnant land. So may my friends be, 
 Not like mountains towering o'er the sea, 
 Wrapt in the cold splendor of a world apart 
 With granite thoughts and barren boulder heart 
 But high enough to tempt my gaze above 
 And low enough to catch the sunshine of my love.
 
 56 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 So may my death be, like the hill, sun-riven 
 Holding its last sweet beam from earth to catch the first 
 from heaven. 
 
 BY THE LITTLE BIG-HORN. 
 
 (A Montana paper is authority for the statement that a 
 half-breed Sioux, who had served as scout for Gen. Custer, 
 was living in that State a few years ago, and claimed to be 
 the only survivor of Custer's last fight. In the confusion this 
 half-breed mingled with the Sioux and escaped the massacre 
 by reason of close tribal resemblance. He relates how eight 
 horsemen of the Seventh Regiment cut through the Sioux 
 and gained the foot-hills beyond, where they could easily 
 have joined Reno and escaped, had they not looked down 
 and seen the desperate strait in which their General was 
 placed. To the astonishment of all, they shot their own 
 horses, and, forming into line, marched back to die with 
 Custer.) 
 
 DOWN to their death in the valley of silence> 
 Down where the Sioux's treach'rous ranks lay at bay, 
 Down till the yellow waves turned into crimson 
 The old Seventh rode on that ill-fated day. 
 "Forward, the Seventh! Charge through the Sioux center!" 
 
 'Twas Custer who said it he rode on the right 
 His long yellow hair was the banner they followed 
 
 And he sat his black horse like the Centaur of fight! 
 
 Down to their death in that somber-hued valley, 
 
 They rode through the Sioux with carbine and Colt 
 
 The reins in their teeth and the glint of their sabers 
 Making the flash for their lead thunderbolt. 
 
 "Forward the Seventh Guide right! To the center!" 
 'Twas Custer who said it. as onward he sped,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 57 
 
 Spurring his steed where the eagle's grey feathers 
 Rose o'er the crest of the billows of red. 
 
 Out from that valley, that valley of carnage, 
 
 Eight horsemen have cut through the ranks of the foe; 
 They gain the bold heights and safely look downward, 
 
 Down on the scene of this new Alamo. 
 For there, his dead steed as a breastwork before him, 
 
 With the glory of battle ablaze in his eye, 
 Answering it back in flash of his pistols, 
 
 Our prince of the saddle has stopped there to die! 
 
 Again and again roll the billows of fury 
 
 To be shattered again as the wave on the rock; 
 Again and again melts the line of the Seventh 
 
 Beneath the Sioux bullet and Wahpeton shock. 
 But see! from the heights where their good steeds have clam 
 bered, 
 
 Out-footing Sioux pony in fleet-winged flight, 
 The eight have dismounted one glance tells the story 
 
 They shoulder their rifles and dress to the right. 
 
 They hear the wild whoop of the blood-madden'd savage, 
 
 They see their brave comrades go down in the brunt, 
 They hear through the din the calm voice of brave Custer 
 
 A breastwork of dead he has made in his front! 
 "Attention, squad!" 'twas the sergeant who said it, 
 
 "Fours right into line our duty lies back!" 
 Then quick from his belt came a blue-gleaming barrel, 
 
 And the steed that had saved him lay dead in its track! 
 
 Back to their death in that valley of slaughter 
 
 Eight horsemen march down on the hosts of the Sioux, 
 
 Not a trumpet gave note not the gleam of a banner 
 'Tis only a duty they march down to do. 
 
 "Forward, squad!" said the sergeant immortal
 
 58 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "Charge straight for the center to Custer once more, 
 And Time, in his pitiless flight, for a moment 
 
 Looked down on a sight he had ne'er seen before. 
 
 Up in that valley, that sweetly green valley, 
 
 O, raise them a monument proudly in air, 
 Telling the story as ages grow hoary 
 
 What American soldiers for duty will dare. 
 High on the shaft in the glint of the sunlight 
 
 Let Ouster's proud figure, heroic, stand high, 
 And grouped just beneath, with immortelle wreath, 
 
 The eight nameless horsemen who never shall die. 
 
 TO A MOCKING BIRD IN THE PINE-TOP. 
 
 B 
 
 IRD of the South sweet songster! 
 Brighter than the evening star 
 That beams above thy perch afar 
 Thy song pours out, its every bar 
 
 Music'd with melody. 
 Singing in the pine-top green, 
 Of all the feathered tribe the queen 
 A rising, falling, rippling sheen 
 
 Of flowing harmony. 
 
 Lute of the South our Southland! 
 
 Pouring from thine em'ral throne 
 On the pine tree's top-most cone 
 Notes by mortals never known, 
 
 Of sweet simplicity. 
 
 What sunbeams made that twinkling \rill? 
 What zephyr tuned that throat, until 
 Its life and breath and spirit fill 
 
 Thy soul of poesy?
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 59 
 
 Mimic of the South sly warbler, 
 
 Hast thou caught the firefly's glow 
 
 In the sparkle of thy flow, 
 
 Or gathered from the sunset's bow 
 
 Thy shafts of rhapsody? 
 Magnolia blossoms in the breeze 
 Art thou singing now of these 
 While filling Heaven's purpling frieze 
 With incense musical? 
 
 In that calm note, soft and low, 
 
 Dost thou see the bayou's flow 
 Bespangled with the stars that grow 
 
 From water lilies? 
 
 Or up the green decked, wooded hill 
 Where speeds the brook to water mill, 
 Is that jingling note its trill 
 
 Down ravine rushing? 
 
 Deeper, sweeter flows the stream 
 
 All merry mad with glide and gleam 
 Until the very woodlands seem 
 
 To reel with euphony. 
 Softly sweet, 'neath paling dome, 
 Thou singest now of that true home, 
 Where we shall weep no more, nor roam, 
 
 But rest forever. 
 
 Listening to the revery note 
 
 From thy moonlit perch, there float 
 Tales of other days remote, 
 Mem'ries of chivalry. 
 Tales that tell of times agone 
 The cotton's banner 'mid the corn
 
 6o SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Of Charity that's ever born 
 'Mid peace and plenty. 
 
 Changing now to deeper tone 
 
 Comes a war-note from thy throne, 
 And sweetness for a season's flown 
 
 For martial measures. 
 Short and quick with bugle thrill 
 The war-drum echoes in thy trill 
 The fife's fierce scream and trumpet fill 
 
 Thy clarion melody. 
 
 Silently a march in Saul 
 
 Thou changest now to fun'ral pall 
 Thou mournest now for those who fall 
 
 Wearing the gray. 
 
 Ay, weep; for in the rush of wrong 
 That followed with the alien throng, 
 Thy people needed every song 
 
 Thy heart could give. 
 
 Hark! another note we hear, 
 
 'Tis the plowboy's whistle clear, 
 As morning finds him with his gear, 
 
 To yoke prosperity. 
 Then, as up the sunshine gleams 
 Our night of dread melts into dreams 
 Of harvest fields and peaceful streams 
 
 And barns of plenty. 
 
 Bird of -the South dear songster, 
 
 Sing in the pine-top, ever sing, 
 Cause all the southern air to ring, 
 Music and evergreens o'er us fling 
 
 And teach the religion of harmony.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 61 
 
 Sing in the pine-top, in that tree, 
 The emblem of eternity 
 Sing 'till thy people, hearing thee, 
 Shall live for immortality. 
 
 THE TRUE SINGER. 
 
 I STARTED out for my usual drive the other even 
 ing and the first thing I drove into was a stratum no, a 
 flood of melody. I pulled up quickly and looked all around. 
 I could hear it but I could not see the musician. It seemed 
 to come from everywhere. I knew the rascal that was making 
 it, and the white oak tree he was in, but the mocking bird, 
 like all true singers, is so unpretentious in his make-up, and so 
 near the color of nature generally, that I could scarcely tell 
 him from the big, honest limb he was sitting on. And I knew 
 well enough, too, why his music seemed to come from every 
 where he drew it from everywhere and he never pours it out 
 twice in the same direction. Ah, he is the true singer! 
 Watch him just now a minute and see. While his little gray 
 throat swells and puffs and rolls like miniature bellows, and 
 his tiny eyes, "in a fine frenzy rolling," dart about here and 
 there, now at the earth and now at the heaven above him, 
 notice how his little head moves from side to side, pouring his 
 song in every direction, and varying it to suit every new and 
 beautiful sight that flashes across the retina of the tiny sen 
 tinels in his eyes. It is almost comical to see how earnest 
 he is not to sing, but to sing of some new thing. And so 
 he "doth glance from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth," 
 and involuntarily he pours out the impression that he sees. 
 
 "You are the true singer, old fellow," I said, as my heart 
 welled up at the lesson he was teaching me, and I pulled of? 
 my hat in his presence. "You are the true singer. Spring is 
 glorious, but you are not singing of spring until your spring
 
 62 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 song is a spring joke among the other birds. The heavens 
 are blue but you don't dwell on them always. The fields are 
 green and sunshiny and beautiful, but only a glint of them 
 has crept into your music. Your mate died in the terrible 
 freeze of last winter, and that tender flutter of crape in your 
 song was just enough to draw us to you. Had you hung out 
 your black flag as some folks do who imagine they are mourn 
 ing thereby for the dead, or had you poured your misery 
 between me and the sunshine, I would ride on and teil you to 
 go and mate with a blackbird. But O, what a singer you are! 
 A little of the fields, a gleam from the air, a glint from the 
 sunshine and a glow of the skies. A memory of a dead love, 
 a tiny bit of mocking humor, a quaint shaft of musical satire, 
 a withering take-off on some cat bird who thinks he, too. 
 is a singer and has tried to imitate you, and a jolly laugh at 
 the foibles of man. Twinkles, jests, raptures, dreams; dances, 
 songs, brooks, flowers; sermons, poems, music, stars and 
 all of it heaven! 
 
 And before I had time to tire, he dropped off the limb 
 in an ecstasy of delight, singing all the time, and, sweeping 
 in long curves just over my head, he flew up the shaded 
 pike till his variations died away in the distance. 
 
 /H-H 
 
 FIRST MONDAY IN TENNESSEE. 
 
 LAST Monday was "First Monday" in Tennessee, and if 
 you have ever been in a Tennessee town on that event 
 ful day in April, you will know what it means without any 
 further description. I hope you have, because it cannot be 
 accurately described except by sight and the looker on, to 
 do it justice, should have as many eyes lying around loose 
 upon him and decking his terminal facilities, as the famous 
 Argus of old. For this is the day of the year to the average 
 citizen of the Volunteer State. On that day, every owner of
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 63 
 
 a lordly stallion, every obstreperous breeder of a dulcet- 
 toned Jack, every proud possessor of a rantankerous bull, 
 with clay on his horns and cockleburrs in his tail (I am re 
 ferring to the bull, of course), is expected to be out with his 
 family and his friends to show the kind of live stock on which 
 he has pinned his faith. And they are all there. 
 
 Tennessee was admitted into the Union June i, 1/96, and 
 so far as I have been able to learn, this time-honored day 
 was admitted with her. In fact, I think it was tacitly under 
 stood at the time, that, whether the State obtained certain 
 representatives in Congress or not, whether the boundary 
 ended with the Mississippi or the Tennessee, whether the In 
 dian lands should be bought up or not, all of these might 
 be decided as the National Congress should decree; but if 
 "First Monday" couldn't come in, in the language of old 
 Hickory, "By the eternal, boys, we'll stay out of the little old 
 Union till she grows big enough to take in our First Mon 
 day." But, happily, no opposition was offered, and to-day 
 Tennesseans would fight for "First Monday" quicker than 
 they would for the privilege of brewing the mountain corn 
 juice under the shadowy clifts of the Big Smokey. 
 
 For what, indeed, would life be worth to the horse-loving 
 Tennessean, if deprived of the privilege of showing off, on the 
 first Monday of each April, his pacing stallion, decked with 
 enough red blankets to cover the nakedness of darkest Africa, 
 and with halter and reins suffi iently strong to anchor a man- 
 of-war at sea? Bonaparte, crossing the Alps on his restless 
 war-horse (as a matter of fact, it was a mule, the chiefest 
 product of middle Tennessee, but we use "restless war-horse" 
 for poetical effect), and looking down upon the plains of Italy, 
 was not so proud and happy as is the average Tennessean in 
 the horse parade around the Court House square, holding his 
 mettlesome roan pacer in check and proudly proclaiming to 
 the gaping crowd around him: "Yes, boys, this is a Tom 
 Hal!" 
 
 "First Monday" is founded on a simple and beautiful cus-
 
 64 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 torn so old that its origin is lost in the haze of those who 
 came first over the mountains to settle in the beautiful Wau- 
 taga valley. I have taken great pains to look up this matter 
 and get at the origin of it. And you will never guess, gentle 
 reader, how it really started. Be not surprised, then, when I 
 solemnly proclaim to you that the festive ground-hog is the 
 father of the whole business the ground-hog with his in 
 comparable weather bureau department! 
 
 "Pray explain yourself," I hear you say. "How could so 
 simple an" animal as a ground-hog originate such a time- 
 honored custom as an annual stock parade on 'First Mon 
 day?' " 
 
 It is simple enough. To begin with, Tennessee has al 
 ways banked on the ground-hog as a weather prophet the 
 Tennessee Ground-Hog Weather Department is far older 
 than Uncle Sam's, and I might as well add, far more reliable. 
 In the Tennessee department the ground-hog is the chief 
 of the bureau; he makes but one prophecy a year and he 
 never misses it; whereas the bureau at Washington makes one 
 every day and generally retires at night with the sin of Ana 
 nias tacked to its official skirts, predicting rain on the thresh- 
 hold of a Pharaoh famine, and preparing us for a "long, dry 
 drought" about the time the heavens declare the curtain 
 will now arise on the Noah and the Ark act. 
 
 But what about the ground-hog? It is plain enough. On 
 the second day of February he emerges from his hole in the 
 ground to see if he can cast a shadow. If he can cast a 
 shadow he solemnly goes back into his hole to remain six 
 full weeks which is his way of declaring that "bad weather 
 and hell ginerally is gwinter be to pay till de fuss Monday 
 in April." But if the sky be cloudy that second day of Feb 
 ruary when he emerges, and he can not cast a shadow, the offi 
 cial declaration goes forth that an early spring and bright 
 days are to follow. Now do not jump at the conclusion, kind 
 reader, that the Tennessee ground-hog ever gets so poor
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 65 
 
 that he cannot cast a shadow if the sun be shining. Far be 
 it from my intention to intimate any such thing. The Tennes 
 see ground-hog, like everything else in this hog and hominy 
 State, is abundantly able to cast any number of shadows. The 
 term is used metaphorically, and is but another way of saying 
 that the ground-hog emerges from his hole to see whether or 
 not the sun is shining. 
 
 Now, if the sun be shining on that second day of Febru 
 ary, as aforesaid, he goes back into his hole to remain there 
 for six long weeks, and nothing under heaven but an earth 
 quake with a geyser attachment can get him out. There he 
 will remain though the heavens fall, or his mother-in-law pays 
 him a visit. And all the men, women and children in Tennes 
 see accept his decision and prepare to keep on their winter 
 flannels as per order of this absolutely reliable authority. Was 
 ever anything more simple and plain and absolutely inexpen 
 sive? And the beauty of it is, it has never been known to 
 lie it is Truth itself, decked in homespun and a wool hat; 
 it is Washington with a Bible in one hand and a pair of 
 hatchets in the other. We commend it to the department 
 at Washington! 
 
 But let us proceed with the research that brought us up 
 to the origin of "First Monday." The connecting link is plain 
 enough. After consulting many ancient volumes, we have 
 discovered that originally, in the early history of the State, 
 the First Monday in April, a day now entirely devoted to the 
 display of live stock, was a kind of feast day in 
 the temple of Ground-Hogium, celebrated in honor of the 
 termination of the Ground-Hog's potent prophecy. As time 
 went on and people began to use the pacinghorse as a means 
 of reaching the county site to participate in the festivities, 
 great interest began to be manifested by those who were bold 
 enough to "ride a critter," (when they might just as well walk) 
 in the various animals collected, in the town. This interest 
 gradually grew, strengthened by a horse race now and then, 
 and sustained by the laudable desire in the breast of every
 
 66 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 patriotic Tennessean to see that his family relic of a horse, 
 afflicted with every disease from Bright's to "that tired feel 
 ing," died the property of some unsophisticated countryman. 
 In this way the custom was gradually changed from Ground- 
 Hog worship to horse swapping, from a religious festival to 
 the intricate diplomacy of lying about one's horse. And so it 
 remains to this day. 
 
 How often does history repeat itself. The Druidical wor 
 ship of our old forefathers in the woods of Britain was the 
 forerunner of the true worship of to-day; and from the woods 
 of Tennessee, around the sacred temple of the priestly Ground 
 Hog has emanated the beautiful custom of "First Monday." 
 
 On the day in question, the pikes are fairly alive with 
 folks, peoples, horses, jacks and niggers. Observe the order 
 in which I name these, kind reader; for that order is the order 
 in which they stand socially in Tennessee. Observe also, if 
 you please, that I make a distinction between peoples and 
 folks folks being those who own a pacing horse and are able 
 to drive or ride to town; while peoples are merely common 
 plugs who must walk. Peoples are further divided, I might 
 as well tell, because the distinction is quite important in 
 Tennessee into three classes; those who are able to wear 
 shoes and stockings, those who have shoes but no stockings, 
 and those who go barefooted You may think this is foolish 
 and unnecessary distinction, kind reader, but allow me to 
 inform you it is based on one of the most beautiful customs 
 of the unwritten law of Middle Tennessee and one which is 
 very closely observed in the State. For, when "all hands' 
 have reached the classic town of Columbia, for instance, their 
 first duty is to repair to the nearest bar for a drink, and here it 
 is that the distinction between the folks and the three classes 
 of peoples is so nicely drawn. When a portly gentleman 
 of the first class walks in, his face shining behind a silver grey 
 mustache, no question is asked, but the best in the house is 
 set up. He's folks. But when one of the other class walks
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 67 
 
 in, the bar-keeper peeps over the counter to observe his 
 foot gear. If he has on shoes and stockings, the barkeeper 
 knows his purse will stand Lincoln County's Medium; if he 
 has on shoes but no stockings, apple brandy from the county 
 of Warren, smelling of Tarn O'Shanter's midnight ride, is set 
 out; but if, in looking over the counter, the barkeeper's eyes 
 meet the sprawling flabbiness of two po'-white feet, bust-head 
 at five cents a glass is what he wants. In no case is any ques 
 tion asked except, "How are you shod, partner?" 
 
 Was ever anything more simple? 
 
 And so they come on "First Monday," all bound for Co 
 lumbia. The country cousin riding his pacing stallion with 
 a darky bringing up the rear leading an ambling ass and in 
 terrupting his assship's repeated endeavors to keehonk, 
 keehonk every now and then by a vigorous jerking of his bit, 
 much to the disgust of that classic animal. Two young bucks 
 fly by in a buck-board drawn by a slick pacer that has given 
 everybody's team the dust since they left Spring Hill. 
 
 "Say, nigger, whose jack is that?" they yell out as they 
 pass. 
 
 "Capt. Jackson, sah," is the answer amid a display of 
 ivory caused by the implied compliment to his charge. 
 
 "Fine feller," they shout back, "we're fur him for the 
 legislature" but whether they meant the ass or the master, 
 deponent sayeth not, merely remarking that, so far as the 
 personality of the Tennessee legislature is concerned, it is 
 "a difference without a distinction." 
 
 They are all there, "goin' to Columbia!" 
 
 Every old lady who has a hank of yarn for sale, is there. 
 Every pretty girl, showing unmistakable evidence of being 
 fixed up for the occasion, with too much powder over her 
 natural roses and a well-I-don't-feel-exactly-kinder-easy-in- 
 these-stays kind of look, is there. Every urchin who can 
 bring a dozen eggs in his hat and his pockets, is there. All, 
 from the rich farmer behind his spanking surrey team, to the
 
 68 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 old darkey on his load of stove wood; from the well-to-do 
 farmer with his wife and happy children, the latter looking 
 a little unnatural in the solemnity that has come over them 
 by reason of the startling, novel and astonishing fact that 
 they, too, are at last "goin' to Columbia," to the poor cropper 
 on his mule they are all in the procession! The man with his 
 patent; the officer with his papers; that most detested of liv 
 ing men, the back tax-collector; the man who wants to hire; 
 the book agent; the "nigger" with a grin on his face and game 
 rooster under his arm they are all there, "gwine to Colum 
 bia." On the square all is hustle, stir, squeaking, snorting, 
 cackling, flying, braying, jostling, arguing. 
 
 But allow me to digress right here, kind reader, and ex 
 plain to you what "the square" means. There are two kinds 
 of "squares" in Tennessee "Square" Jones and the Court 
 House square. The latter is the square I refer to. It is 
 really but the meeting of four broad streets, around the temple 
 of justice, where all the trade and trafficing is done. In Co 
 lumbia this temple of justice is a most ancient and dilapidated 
 structure, built with so little regard for architectural rules 
 that the oldest inhabitant has never yet been able to tell which 
 one of its sides was intended for the front; but as it was in 
 this building that Andrew Jackson stirred his partisans, and 
 James K. Polk was wont to practice law, the citizens of the 
 county would not exchange it for a duplication of the classic 
 Parthenon. Around it they assemble to barter, to trade and 
 to swap horses. Now when people assemble to swap horses, 
 you know what follows. And why they should have selected 
 their temple of justice around which to do their lying, is more 
 than I can tell. My private opinion is that the horny fisted 
 horse swapper believed he had as much right to lie around the 
 ground floor of the temple as the lawyer had on the second 
 floor. 
 
 A big fellow with a cat-fish mouth, chin whiskers and a 
 bald head is mounted on a wagon preaching free salvation 
 to a crowd that looks like they thought it was a mighty long
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 69 
 
 time between drinks; two darkies on a corner have met and 
 are discussing the efficacy of baptism, while numbers of the 
 dusky partisans stand around now and then to exclaim 
 "dats de truf, amen!" A man rushes to the door in a corner 
 of the Square and rings vigorously a big dinner bell. It is a 
 sign that he wants to feed them all at his restaurant. There 
 are four corners to every square and soon a bell is clanging in 
 each of the other three corners to let the world know the 
 first fellow hadn't all of the dinner. 
 
 But soon a mighty shout arises, and the word is passed 
 up and down the line of spectators: "There comes Walter 
 Woldridge! There comes Walter Woldridge!" And sure 
 enough there he does come, mounted on his elegant sad 
 dler and leading the procession to the Temple of Ground- 
 hogium. To attempt to have a First Monday without Wal 
 ter Woldrige, the most popular man in Maury County, the 
 beau-ideal of a horseman, gentleman and Nature's noble 
 man, would be like trying to have a stock parade with the 
 nobility of pedigree omitted. 
 
 "No, no, boys," as Newt Dew would say, "leave out the 
 groundhog, but don't leave out Walter Woldridge!" 
 
 And so the procession comes, a long line of glistening 
 flanks, arching necks, prancing steps, mincing gaits, whin- 
 neys, nickers, snorts, bellows and brays in semi-hemi-demi- 
 quivers, beginning with Brown Hal and Duplex, and end 
 ing with Plummer Webster and Tax Payer. 
 
 They are all there "gwine to Columbia." 
 
 A twenty-foot track is made in the living crowd around 
 the Court house square and half a hundred flying pacers are 
 showing their gaits, while the chancellor leaves his bench and 
 the lawyers their cases to look out of the windows. A bell 
 is ringing across the street at a store and proclaims that the 
 ladies of a certain church are giving a lunch to pay off the 
 church debt; an auctioneer is howling away, trying to sell a 
 $10 buggy for $25; a man with a patent blacking, warranted
 
 70 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 to shine forever, is blacking the boots of all who will come to 
 his stand; a big jack brays in your ear while you are looking 
 at a dog fight under a wagon; an apple wagon, all the way 
 from the "State of Lawrence," is selling the rosy fruit left and 
 right. 
 
 Elbow your way through the crowd on the square and you 
 will laugh at the fragments of conversation you hear as you 
 pass "No, no, no, the wheat crop's boun' ter be a failure"- 
 "Is Sally raelly done married at last? Who ' "Fine as he 
 kin be sound in wind, limb an' eye furst dam by Tom Hal, 
 second dam by Pinter's Slasher " "Git out, nigger, who is 
 you enny how?" "Keehonk, keehonk, keehonk, keehe, kee 
 hee, keehee-e-eow!" "No, no, Majah, the fundamental prin 
 ciples of the Democratic party "Coin', goin', gone sold 
 fur twenty-five cents to the red-headed gentleman with a wart 
 on his " 
 
 You never stop to learn where the wart is, for your atten 
 tion is attracted to a vacant lot as you pass where a darky is 
 selling, to those who have money to buy, a cart load of Duck 
 river cat-fish and buffalo, while behind the cart, in the vacant 
 lot, a negro dance is in full swing. You stop to listen, for the 
 fiddler, inspired by the music of his fiddle and the muse of 
 inspiration, has rhymed in his calls to music, and, keeping 
 time with his feet to the flying bow, sings out in his peculiar 
 chant: 
 
 Great big fat man down in de corner 
 
 Dance to de gal wid de blue dress on her; 
 
 You Tittle bitter feller widout eny vest 
 
 Dance to de gal in de caliker dress. 
 
 Git up, Jake, an' turn your partner, 
 
 Shake dem feet as you kno' you 'orter; 
 
 You little red nigger wid de busted back 
 
 Git up an' gin us de "chicken rack." 
 
 All hands round O, step lite, ladies, 
 
 Don't fling yer feet so fur in de shadies;
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. >j l 
 
 Come, you one-eyed nigger, fling 
 Dem feet an' gib us de "pigeon wing." 
 Such is a faint idea of "First Monday in Tennessee." 
 
 THE FAITH OF OLD. 
 
 THE years with their changes come, and the years with 
 their plans unfold, 
 But give me the peace my heart hath known in the sweet 
 
 dream-days of old. 
 It comes to my soul to-night, like the dream of a dream at 
 
 dawn, 
 Like the smell of the rain on the ripen'd grain, at the first 
 
 flush of the morn. 
 Then rush with the maddened throng, and battle for fame 
 
 and gold, 
 
 And furl your flags 'mid the wrath of wrong I'll cling to 
 the peace of old. 
 
 The years with their follies come, with their follies and then 
 
 their woe; 
 But give me the hope of the years I knew in the summer of 
 
 long ago. 
 It comes to my heart to-night like the song of the birds and 
 
 the bees, 
 Like the blue of the skies that over them rise and the sway 
 
 of the leaf in the trees. 
 
 Then follow the fickle throng, and clamor both loud and bold, 
 And drown Truth's voice with the drums of Wrong I'll cling 
 
 to the hope of old. 
 
 The years with their visions come, and go, as a tale that is 
 
 told 
 But give me the faith my mother taught in the bright, glad 
 
 days of old.
 
 72 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 It comes to my soul to-night, and I know there's a God 
 
 above, 
 Else why should I long, in an infinite song, to tell of the 
 
 depths of love? 
 Then kneel to the tinseled knave, and offer your soul at his 
 
 shrine 
 You bind your wreaths on the brow of a slave I'll cling to 
 
 the hand Divine. 
 
 FAIR TIMES IN OLD TENNESSEE. 
 
 FAIR time in ole Tennessee, days jes' to yer makin', 
 Nights so cool an' crispy, jes' the kind for 'possum 
 
 shakin', 
 
 Mornin's bright wid sun an' light of frosty dew an' flashy, 
 Weather jes' the kind to make the little nigger ashy! 
 Bak'n in de rafters, sorghum mills er grindin' sweetin', 
 Punkins in de hay loft an' religgun in de meetin'! 
 
 Fair time in ole Tennnessee, ebery body gwine, 
 
 Waggins full o' pritty gals, dair ribbons jes r a'flyin', 
 
 Pikes jes' full o' people, an' de woods jes' full o' niggers 
 
 A'leadin' ob de pacin' colts wid marks down in de figgers. 
 
 Hoss an' jack an' jinny an' Jersey bull, all gwineter 
 
 Git dar, 'kase deys brudders to dat good ole hoss, Hal Pinter! 
 
 Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body stirrin' 
 Cl'ar de road, dair comes er fool a'whippin' an' a'spurrin'I 
 Look out dair yo' nigger, Julius Sezer Andrer Asker! 
 Lead dat pesky jack erside and let dis Hal hoss pass, suh! 
 Dun fergot your raisin', eh? Fust thing dat you kno', suh, 
 You think de state ob Tennesse dun drap on you, fer sho', 
 suh! 
 
 Fair time in ole Tennnessee, all de niggers dancin',
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 73 
 
 All de hosses in de ring a'pacin' an' a'prancin', 
 White folks drinkin' lemonade jes' lak it wus col' water, 
 Nigger drinkin' simmon beer, de drink he allers orter, 
 Nights jes' full er moonlight wid de darkey's heel a'flyin' 
 Lord, when I die, jes' take me whar a fair is allers gwine! 
 
 WHEN THE COLTS ARE IN THE RING. 
 
 Othe fair time, the rare time, I can feel it in the air, 
 j As we take our brimming baskets and go out to see 
 
 the fair; 
 The lasses decked with ribbons red, the colts with ribbons 
 
 blue 
 
 What a trial for the gallant lads to choose between the two! 
 No season of old mother earth can half such blessings bring 
 When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are in the 
 ring. 
 
 O, the beauty of the bonnie curls, the rapture of the race! 
 O! the maiden with the pretty foot the filly that can pace! 
 The one in russet harness with a halter I can hold, 
 But the other's got me harnessed in her wavy hair of gold. 
 O the autumn time is full of joy and every goodly thing, 
 When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are in the 
 ring. 
 
 I 
 
 O, the fair time, the rare time, when the Jerseys set the pace 
 In a sheen of silken colors and a skin of chrome lace, 
 And the Berkshires tie their tails up in a lovely Psyche knot, 
 And the Shorthorns and the Shropshires and Southdowns 
 
 make it hot. 
 
 "I wouldn't live here always," is the doleful song they sing, 
 Who never loved a maiden while the colts were in the ring.
 
 74 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 O, the fair time, the rare time, in our life a verdant spot, 
 When the people are all jolly and their trials are forgot; 
 And I sit and muse in fancy to the days so long ago 
 When I sparked my little sweetheart out to see the County 
 
 show. 
 Since then old Time has made me dance to-day I'll make 
 
 him sing, 
 For the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are in the ring. 
 
 THE RABBIT TRAP. 
 
 DOWN in de sage fiel', settin' in de sno', 
 I looks from de winder an' I sees whut is lef 
 Uv er rickety rabbit trap, whar de tall weeds bio', 
 An' little Phil made it by his own little sef. 
 
 He cut de pine sticks, an' he bent de peach bow, 
 An' he whittled out de triggers wid his Barlo' blade, 
 
 Den he slip off by hissef jes' es sly as he cud go, 
 An' sot it by de big stump in de shugar glade. 
 
 An' he laf an' he played twell de big red moon 
 
 Riz frum de medder, an' dey tole 'im "cum ter bed." 
 
 But he said: "Daddy Wash, you must wake me mighty soon, 
 Fur I'm gwinter ketch Brer Rabbit, sho', an' you may 
 have his head." 
 
 Po' little Phil! Ole Marster's lastes' chile, 
 
 An' me an' Dinah nussed 'im an' we loved 'im lak our own, 
 Wid sunlight allers in hes heart and moonlight in his smile 
 
 But dey am sot foreber now and lef' us hear ter moan. 
 
 Fur dey saunt fur me quick dat night 'bout 'leben, 
 An' de white folks was cryin' 'round er little trundle-bed;
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 75 
 
 ''Daddy Wash," sed po' little Phil, "I'm gwinter up to 
 
 Heaben, 
 But you must watch my rabbit trap whilst I'm dead." 
 
 Down in de grabe yard whar de cedars bio' 
 I looks frum de winder an' my tears fall ergain, 
 
 Fur I sees er little grabe dar, out in de sno', 
 An' little Phil sleeps in de sleet an' de rain. 
 
 MISS KITTY'S FUN'RAL. 
 
 O, 
 
 HEAH de banjo ringin', 
 ' , O heah de tamboreen, 
 O heah de darkies singin', 
 
 Susanna am my queen. 
 
 O cum, my lub; O cum, my lub, wid me; 
 
 We'll dance an' sing down by de 'simmon tree; 
 
 O heah de banjo ringin', 
 
 O heah de tamboreen; 
 
 O heah de darkies singin', 
 
 Susanna am my queen. 
 
 A song in type is as unsatisfactory as one of Nature's 
 pastels on pasteboard, and the simple negro melody above 
 sounds nothing like the vibrating notes that floated, not long 
 ago, into my window, fresh from the echoing strings of a 
 banjo. I could not resist it, and on going out I found Old 
 Wash, as everybody calls the old darkey, under the elm 
 that shaded his cabin door. The moonbeams glittered 
 askance, flecking the earth with silvered blossoms and chang 
 ing each flooded leaf into a night-blooming flower. The dis 
 tant notes of a tree-frog came from the forest beyond, while 
 the regular cadences of a whippoorwill added just the tinge of 
 weirdness necessary to form the background of a banjo song.
 
 76 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 In darkey language, the old man was "makin' de banjo hum," 
 and for melody and sweetness, in the hands of a master, there 
 is no instrument more weirdly musical. 
 
 To-night Old Wash was beside himself. The brass thimble 
 on his "pickin* finger" flashed in the moonlight; his foot 
 patted in unison, and fluttered like a black bat trying to 
 leave the earth. Even his body kept time and swayed to 
 and fro with the music. I listened in silent delight. The 
 tune I had heard before, but not the words, for he was im 
 provising as he played. 
 
 De little stars am winkin', 
 
 Dey 'bout ter go to sleep; 
 De pale moon now am sinkin', 
 
 An' daylight shadders creep. 
 O cum, my lub, we'll dance Ferginny reel; 
 De sun am up an' shinin"; now for de cotton fiel'. 
 O heah de banjo ringin', 
 
 O heah de tamboreen; 
 O heah de darkies singin', 
 
 Susanna am my queen. 
 
 "Go on, old man," I said: "Give me that song again. 
 You almost make me feel like going courting again. What's 
 the matter with you? Thinking about starting all over in 
 life?" 
 
 "No, sah; 'taint dat, sah," laughed the old man, '"taint 
 dat. Deys too much moss on de ole tree fur de leaves ter 
 cum ergin. De sap can't rise when de bark am dead. De 
 leabes fall off when de cotton boll open. Didn't you nurver 
 think erbout it?" he added after a moment's thought, "de 
 soul don't nurver gro' ole ef it's libbed right. De head gits 
 white an' de lim's weak an' de eyes dim, but de soul gits 
 younger es it grows older, de ole man gits mo' lak er boy 
 es he goes down de hill. Nachur kinder seems to ease us
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 77 
 
 off de stage ob life gently, lak she foch us in. In our ole 
 age we gits young ergin an' childish and happy. We eben 
 try ter kick up our heels ergin an' be funny an' 'magine 
 we gwinter lib er long, long time yit. Sho' me de ole 
 man don't keer how ole he am dat don't spec' ter lib at 
 least ten yeahs longer. Dat's nachur's way ob foolin' us, 
 sah; dat's her way ob puttin' her babies ter sleep de last 
 long sleep. Puttin' 'em ter sleep contented lak, an' happy, 
 thinkin' dey'll wake in the mornin' an' be young ergin." 
 
 "I tell you, sah, ole Master's mighty good to us. He 
 could er put us heah widout hope, ef he had wanted to; 
 he could er put us heah widout sweet dreams, widout 
 vishuns of er better wurl, widout dat onpurchasabul feelin' 
 dat cums to us when we knows we dun right widout eben 
 de blessed Book. But he didn't. An' so we dream on to 
 de last an' hope to de last, an' b'leeve we gwinter be better 
 an' stronger to-morrer an' cling to de Good Book fur de 
 sweetes' promis' of dem all de promis' dat we'll lib ergin. 
 
 "No, sah," he continued, as he threw off his solemn 
 tone and brightened up a bit, "no, sah, sho' es you lib 
 right you'll git younger es you gro' older. Why, sah, de 
 oldes' man or woman in de wurl am de middle-aiged, chillun- 
 raisin', money-makin', bizness-wurryin', ain't-got-no-time-to- 
 eat, folks. Dey am de ole ones, far older den de gray haids 
 lak me dat dun laid erside all dese heah trashy things an' got 
 to romantin' ergin. 
 
 "Why, whut you reckon I wus thinkin' erbout to-night?" 
 asked the old man as he looked sheepishly around at the 
 door way, in which sat Aunt Dinah, his wife. This dusky 
 lady had been listening apparently unconcerned at the old 
 man's narration, but filling the still night air with fragrant 
 breath of "deer tongue and Williamson leaf" as the smoke 
 curled up from her newly made cob-pipe. 
 
 "Thinkin' about marrying again?" I asked, as I glanced 
 suspiciously at Aunt Dinah, and then I watched her shuffle her 
 feet disdainfully as she stopped smoking long enough to re-
 
 78 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 mark laconically: "Jes' let 'im go on, young Master let 'im 
 superseed," she said as she followed her usual custom of 
 throwing in some big word sounding something like the 
 one she was trying to use. "Let 'im superseed. He has 
 dese fits ebry now an' den an' de bes' way ter stop 'im am to 
 let 'im run down lak you hafter do dese heah old-fashuned 
 clocks. Whut er indellibul wurkin' appleratus he'd be," she 
 said ironically, "ef he was only es game in de tater patch as 
 he am in de moonlight." 
 
 The old man glanced sorrowfully at the door way and 
 continued: "Ter night I jes' gotter thinkin 'erbout my 
 young Mistis, Miss Kitty, de younges' dorter ob Marse Rob 
 ert Young; dis chile ob his old aige by his secon' wife, de 
 prooty leetle Yankee guv'ness dat cum down from Bosting. 
 She cum down ter teach ole Marster's yudder gals, but she 
 got ter lubbin' her skolers so she married dey daddy so she 
 cud be a mammy to 'em. Ain't it strange how wimmen folks 
 will git up enny kinder excuse to marry on? Why, I've 
 knowed 'em ter marry fur indergestion an' dat tired feelin'," 
 laughed the old darky, as he winked at me and then glanced 
 at the cabin door. 
 
 "Wai, she made 'em er good mudder an' ole Marster er 
 good wife ef she did lub cod-fish balls an' baked beans. An' 
 her dorter, Miss Kitty! Why man erlive, dat Yankee cross 
 on our Suddern stock jes' got up de proorties' gal dat eber 
 said 'Yas' to young lub. She had all de brains an' intellect 
 ob her mammy's side wid all de grace an' beauty an' high 
 breedin' an" lily-complecshun ob us Younges. Her mammy 
 was allers dead in fur edicashun, an' so ole Marster saunt 
 an' got 'er three guv'nesses; one fur edercashun, one fur 
 musicashun, an' one fur dress ercashun an' my! how she 
 did shine when she growed up! She was de prootiest gal dat 
 ever trod blue grass, de queenlies' one dat ever gethered up 
 her trail, an' de sweetes' one dat ever pulled er rose in or 
 golden bower whar de hunnysuckers gethers de dew-draps 
 an' de turkey dove sings in de moonlight. I was de kerridge
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 79 
 
 driver an' kept do horses, an' es I useter drive her about an' 
 see her wid all her grace an' beauty git in an' out der ker- 
 ridge, I tell you I was thankful it wus me dat had charge 
 ob her an' not my ancestors in Affercur fur dey would hab 
 et 'er up, thinkin' she wus sum kinder plumidged bird ob de 
 golden pheasant tribe. 
 
 "Endurin' her sebenteenth yeah, Marse Robert's half- 
 brother died in Alerbama an' lef Marse Robert gyardeen fur 
 his son, Henry Robert Littleton, an' he soon cum out to 
 Tennessee kose he had no close kin libin', an' Marse Robert 
 wanted to raise 'im, though he was nineteen dat fall. An' 
 he wus er fine young man, sah; es gentle es er gal an' es 
 nervy es a red-bird in de settin' time. Ef by accerdent he 
 got in de wrong, he'd mighty nigh stan' ennything to git 
 right ergin; but onc't in de right he'd fight fur er eye-lash. 
 Why, I onc't seed 'im pollergize to de oberseer, who was 
 allers overbearin' an' cussin', 'stead ob actin'. Jes' think ob it! 
 pollergize to de oberseer! kose he happen not to know de 
 oberseer's orders one day an' saunt one ob de han's on 
 ernudder erran'. T'would er made no diff'rence ef he hadn't 
 pollergized fur it, but common trash can't stan' quality an' 
 allers mistakes gentleness fur lak ob grit, an' Marse Henry's 
 humbleness made de po' white trash uppish an' he snapped 
 out dat he didn't spec' no better raisin' from er boy dat had 
 cum frum sech er cracker states es Alerbama hoo hoo e! 
 dat's es fur es he got Marse Henry knocked 'im down 
 three times befo' he cud git up onc't. 
 
 "Bringin' two sech nachurs togedder under de same roof, 
 mighty nigh de same thing es mixin' shampain an' red lips, 
 an' I seed de thing wus fixed up betwixt 'em befo' ole Marster 
 caught on an' saunt de boy, as he called 'im, to Ferginny to 
 finish his aigucashun. But dat didn't do no good; ennybody 
 dat had eber seed Miss Kitty en' cud ferget 'er, ain't de 
 kinder folks de gods lub ter kill young, an' arter he ben dar 
 fo' yeahs an' finish his aigucashun heah he cum back to
 
 8o SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Tennessee ergin. 'Yore haid's lebel, Marse Henry,' sez 1 
 to myself, 'de right kinder man don't fall in lub but onc't 
 an' den he strikes de pyore metal or de wuss pocket ob flint 
 dat eber turned er pick! An' in yore case ef you ain't struck 
 de pyore metal I'm black!' 
 
 "An' I've heurd ob Romeo an' Greece an' all dem ole 
 lubbers," said the old man learnedly, "but de way dese heah 
 two young folks lubbed one ernudder befo' de summer went 
 by wus ernuf to make all de yudder aiges take in der signs. 
 Dat's de happies' time ob everybody's life, ennyhow," he 
 soliloquized: "We ain't got much brains at dat stage, 'kose 
 Nachur didn't intend us ter hab 'em; ef we did we wouldn't 
 git koch in de trap she sets fur us de trap ob matrimony. 
 Arter we gits kotched," said the old man as he shook all 
 over with quiet laughter "arter we git kotched, we lak de 
 fox in de fable dat got hees tail in de steel trap we kerry it 
 roun' wid us ebrywhar we go an' make out lak hits des whut 
 we wus lookin' fur all de time, an' er butiful ornerment 
 but Lor, hit pinches mighty hard all de same." 
 
 (A vigorous, jerky puffing in the doorway and clouds 
 of outraged smoke went up to the stars!) 
 
 "An whut you reckon my idee ob Heaben am?" queried 
 the old man emphatically. "Hit's er blessed place way up 
 on sum star, whar de Good Marster lows us ter fall in lub 
 ebry day, but neber lows us ter spile de dream by marryin' 
 fur dat would sho' bust up Heaben!" he said as he shot 
 another look at the doorway. "An' I kin prove it by de 
 Scripturs deysef," he continued. "Don't de Scripturs say 
 'dar shall be no marryin' nur gibbin' in marriage?' an' don't 
 dey also teech us dat up in Heaben we will all lub one ernud 
 der? Wei jes' put dem two argyments togedder an' tell me 
 how you gwinter git erround 'em, sah. Don't dat prove de 
 pint?" 
 
 "I don't wish to get around them," I laughed, "they 
 seem to be good doctrine; but go on with your story."
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 8 1 
 
 "Wai, sah, de match wus de talk ob de country, as bein' 
 de mos' suiterabules' one dat eber wus." 
 
 "Marse Henry an' Miss Kitty! When I thinks ob dem 
 ternight I kin see de dew on de young grass ob life, de 
 roses in de gyarden ob lub, an' de stars in de skies ob happi 
 ness. I smell de flowers ob de past ergin lak dey ustcr 
 smell when I wus young. I see de long walks in de shade 
 ob de ellums an' de oaks, an' de breaf ob de prim-roses floats 
 ober de gyarden. I see de hoss-back rides when de flutter 
 ob Miss Kitty's ribbon meant de flag ob de yunerverse to 
 Marse Henry, an' de perfume on her bit ob lace han'kerchief 
 brought up de sweetes' fragrance frum de depths ob hees hart. 
 Her eyes wus so bright dey'd bring him up befo' day, lak de 
 sun befo' it's time, an' her cheeks wus es butiful es de mohnin' 
 skies erbloom. 
 
 "O dar am lubs an' lubs, but dar am only jes' one fus' 
 lub fur us all. De make-shifts arter dat am lak tryin' to 
 make de red rosebud bloom twict." 
 
 "But sumhow ruther ole Marster had his haid sot on 
 er young lawyer in town dat dey called Capin' Estes, dat 
 was also courtin' Miss Kitty, lak ebrybody else dat seed 'er, 
 an' ole Marster looked wid mo' favor on his suit dan he 
 did on Marse Henry's, on account ob de relashunship betwixt 
 'em. But dar's where ole Marster missed it, an' de onlies' 
 time I urver knowed 'im to miss it. But dis feller was slick, 
 and he done it all wid de leetle insterment in 'is jaw. He 
 was alers talkin' erbout de constertooshunal perogatives ob 
 de divine right ob freemen' an' er makin' law speeches in 
 de Jestis court an' er windin' up wid 'my country, my muther, 
 my Gord, an' my feller citizens,' fer he was sech a demijug 
 he allers put de citizen highes'. Ef he wasn't free wind at 
 de rasho ob 16 ter i, an' de onlimited coinage ob brass, my 
 name ain't Washingtun! Why, he cud talk on fo' things at 
 de same time, pocket er fee on bof sides ob er case, an' keep 
 one eye on de bar-room an' de yuther on de church steeple. 
 He cu'd play poker lak er gambler, drink lak er Kansas
 
 82 SONCS AND STORIES 
 
 drought, an' pray lak er country deacon. He cud get drunk lak 
 er sinner, an' yit stan' highes' es er saint; mak lub wid one eye 
 to Miss Kitty an' yit keep de yuther solemnly sot fur ole 
 Marster lak St. Paul watchin' fur revolushuns!" 
 
 "But de thing soon cum to er end. Marse Henry was 
 too honerbul to court a gal widout her daddy's say-so, an' 
 de Chewsday befo' Easter him an' ole Marster had er long 
 talk in de library. Den Marse Henry cum out sorry lak an' 
 solemn an' he tells me ter take extry keer ob Jap dat wus 
 his haf-thurrerbred saddle hoss an' ter rub 'im down well, 
 an' ter feed 'im oats, not er grain ob cohn. 'Fur,' sez he, 
 'Wash, I'm agwine erway furebber!' " 
 
 "An' dat night I seed er ghost! Hit wus jes' arter Marse 
 Henry started off. I hilt his stirrup an' beg 'im wid tears 
 in my eyes not ter leab us: 'Who gwi hep me take keer ob 
 de hosses now an' pick out de yearlin's fur de spring races? 
 Who dis nigger gwi foller arter de houn's in de spring an' 
 de patterges in de fall? Who gwi' be de mohnin sun ob 
 de place in de strength ob his truth an' honer, an' de sweet 
 moonlight in his tender senterment an' simplicty? Who gwi' 
 set dc 'zample' 'mong de young folks fur dat conshus quiet 
 ness dat cums wid de knowledge ob gameness dat am afeered 
 ob nothin' but doin' wrong? O, Marse Henry! Marse 
 Henry, we can't let you go!'" 
 
 "I hilt on ter his sturrups an' beg 'im ergin an' ergin, 
 fur sumhow I felt lak I'd nurver see 'im enny mo'. But he 
 only grip my han' ergin an' ergin, an' look at me goody-by 
 good by wid his eyes, fur he cudden't talk, an' rode oil" 
 in de gloom down de big row ob ellums. An' dars whar 1 
 seed er ghost! De fus' one I eber seed! Fur es I stood 
 watchin' 'im wid sumpin' lak er pound weight m my throat, 
 an' mighty nigh a ton in my heart, I seed dat ghost plain es 
 I ebber seed ennything! He hed got nearly to de gate in 
 de dark ob de big obershadowin' trees whar de new moon 
 wus tangled up in de lim's (sho' sign er bad luck!) when out 
 slip de ghost frum behind er big tree an' I lakter drap in
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 8j 
 
 my tracks! De lump went down in my throat, but grate 
 Gawd, how my hair riz! De ghost wuz dressed in er windin" 
 sheet ob white an* wid long hair hangin' down er back, an' 
 she skeered Jap so he bolts an' snorts an' she muster skeered 
 Marse Henry too, fur I seed 'im stoop down ter grab dat 
 ghost an' sabe hisself, an' an' den fo' Gawd! I kno' you 
 won't beliebe it, but Marse Henry jes' kissed dat ghost time 
 an' ergin an" I heurd 'im say 'furebber my darling,' er sumpin' 
 dat sounded lak it an' den Jap's gallup clattered up de pike 
 an' de young Marster dat I lub so well wus gone!" 
 
 "How you know dat wuss er gal-ghost ef you nurver 
 seed one befo'?" came mercilessly from the doorway. "O 
 you'll be inexpressibul in de tater-patch to-morrer!" But 
 the old man had not been married fifty years and failed to 
 learn the first lesson of matrimony, so he said nothing but 
 sorrowfully continued: 
 
 "De naixt thing we heurd, Marse Henry wus way down 
 in Fluridy, an' de naixt he hed jined Gen. Lopez wid de 
 five hundred Americans dat went ober ter hep de Cubans 
 fight fer liberty. An' dey got er fighter when dey got Marse 
 Henry! Hit was bred in 'im fur it cum jes' es nachul fur 
 us Scotch-Irish ter fight fur liberty ennybody's liberty an* 
 enny kinder liberty es it is fer er game cock ter crow when 
 he sees de fus beam ob daylight." 
 
 "Fur Liberty," said the old man, "is de daylight ob hu 
 manity!" "An' while I'm on dat subject," he said warmly, 
 "I jes' wanter go on record 'bout dese Cuban fights: Dat 
 wus forty-five years ergo, an' I heurn tell dese Cubans am 
 makin' de same fight now dey did den. I heah de papers call 
 'em rebels, but I tell yo', sonny, dat am er wrong name. Ef 
 dey succeeds de wurl will call 'em patriots! 
 
 "For Rebel," he said, "is de name dat tyranny gibs to de 
 onsuccessful patriot! 
 
 "An' hit makes my blood bile," he said as he grew ex 
 cited, arose from his chair, and threw his banjo down, "hit 
 makes my blood bile when I sees how we set back on our
 
 84 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 dignerty, burn fiah-crackers, cellerbrate de fourth of July, an' 
 scream fur de bird ob freedom twell we hab er case ob kronic 
 sore-throat, an' den call de folks dat am makin' de same fight 
 we made, rebels. An' wussen dat; set right still aholdin' to 
 de tail ob our eagle (fur fear he'll fly ober dar I reckon) 
 an' fusin' to help 'em. We, who fit fur less dan one-tenth 
 dese people hafter stand', now arter we git strong an' pow'ful, 
 we set back an' see dem make de same fight we made, an' 
 feered all de time to open our moufs, lest we take er bad 
 cold! 
 
 "Or ef we does we puts our han's ober our harts an' 
 bows an' scrapes erroun' dat little nest ob royal crows, dat 
 useter be Spanish eagles, an' talk erbout de curt'sy ob Na- 
 shuns' an' all dat! Shame, I say!" 
 
 As he sat down after delivering this rebuke, his voice 
 was peculiarly sad as he continued: "But you've read his 
 tory an' kno' how dat fight ended. Marse Henry beat 'em 
 time an' ergin, but arter erwhile de leetle ban' was ober-pow- 
 ered by de whole Spanish Army, an' wal "he wiped away 
 a tear "dem dat didn't die in de fight wus hung up lak dogs! 
 all but Marse Henry brave, generus, noble Marse Henry! 
 De papers said dat he erlone wus shot, dat he gib de Spanish 
 offercers old Jap.de horse he lubbed so well, if he'd shoot 'im 
 lak er sojer, and not hang 'im lak er spy! An' dey shot 'im 
 fer doin' whut wus bred in 'im ter do, when two ob his gran'- 
 daddies follered de flag of Green's brigade in No'th Calliner, 
 or helped whip ole Ferguson at King's Mountain. 
 
 "Po' Marse Henry! Wal, sah, de news lakter kill us. 
 Hit hurt eben ole Marster, fur I uster heah him walkin' de 
 library flo' an' talkin' erbout it to hissef: 'De boy wus too 
 high strung,' he would say, 'I did not want' im to leab us. 
 I had no idea he wus gwine on dat fool fillerbuster!' An' 
 den he would storm erroun' dat room an' git hot under de 
 collar as he thort how contrary to de rules ob war dey had 
 acted in shootin' Marse Henry, an' den all at onct I see 'im 
 tak down de ole sword his daddy wore at King Mountain, an'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 85 
 
 es he fotch it down wid a bang on de library table lak he thort 
 de whole Spanish army wus dar, he'd say: 'Dam dem Span 
 ish dogs! Dey am nuffin' but hired cowards, an' I cud tak 
 er regerment of Tennessee troops lak dat brave boy an' gib 
 de Union de leetle islan' es a birf-day gif. Dam 'em, I say!' 
 O, ole Marster wus sho' mad, an' when he got mad in er 
 righteous cause he cud mak Unkle Toby ershamed ob his 
 cussin' record! 
 
 "An' Miss Kitty! I jes' can't talk erbout it widout chok- 
 in' up. Fur two yeahs she went in deep mournin', his own 
 widder cudden't er tuck on wusser, fur she nurver smiled 
 an' noboddy wus 'lowed ter menshun Marse Henry's name, 
 hit seemed to 'feet her so! 
 
 "But Time am Sorrow's doctoh," sagely continued the 
 old man, "an' his poultice will draw out de sharpes' pain! 
 
 "Five long yeahs passed, an' Estes had got high up in 
 pollertics; he started out on er brass basis an' went frum post 
 master ter kongress. He'd er gone ter Heaben ef he could 
 er worked it through er pollitercal convenshun! 
 
 "An' now, whut you reckon? De news cum dat he gwine 
 ter marry Miss Kitty an' sho' 'nuff hit's true! 
 
 "When I foun' hit out, I gin up all faith in mankind in 
 general an' womankind in perticler. But den I felt sorry 
 fur Miss Kitty when I larnt dat she was jes' gwine ter marry 
 'im to please 'er old daddy fur she'd do ennything honorbul 
 fur ole Marster an' dat she tole Estes she would marry 'im 
 but dat she would alters lub Marse Henry. She nurver tole 
 me, mind you, but one night I seed it plainer den wurds kin 
 tell. I seed it an' knowed 'er heart wus in Marse Henry's 
 grabe. I seed er ghost ergin, but hit wus Marse Henry's 
 ghost dis time. 
 
 "Dis wus de Chewsdy night befo' Easter, jes' five yeahs 
 to de night dat Marse Henry went away. De big weddin' 
 wus ter cum off de naixt night an' de house wus full ob com- 
 p'ny an' cakes. Miss Kitty nurver smiled, but hed gone er 
 bout all day lak de Greek maiden, spotless an' pyore, dat de
 
 86 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 skule books tell us dey useter kill to de wicket idols in de ole 
 times befo' de gates ob Troy. 
 
 "Dat night I hed gone ter sleep thinkin' erbout Marse 
 Henry, an' how Jap useter stan' in de fust stall naixt to de 
 door; how Marse Henry allers useter cum whistlin' outen de 
 house when he wanted me to saddle Jap, an' how we useter 
 talk erbout de hosses, an' go to de races an' hooraw if our 
 hoss won. I wus jes' thinkin' how open an' manly he wus, an' 
 how fur erpart he wus frum dat Estes es de two ends ob Eter 
 nity, an' den, whut you reckon? I heurn Marse Henry cum 
 outen de house lak he did in de days ob old. I heurd 'im 
 cum down to de stable door, an' pop his ridin' whip es er 
 signal fer me ter bring up Jap, an' den slash his whup on his 
 leg while he waited jes' lak he useter do hundreds ob times 
 befo', an' all so nachul lak, jes' lak he wus gwinter ride ole 
 Jap ergin arter de houn's. An' den, sah, I heurd his voU'e 
 jes' es plain es I urver heurn annything an' jes' lak he useter 
 say, only hit seemed so faint an' fur erway: 'Hello, Wash, 
 saddle Jap! It's time we wus takin' er han' in de fun!' I 
 heurd it so plain, I jumped outen de bed, an' said es I rushed 
 to open de door, 'I'm cumin', Marse Henry, I'm cumin'!' 
 But when I open de do' I wus so diserpinted I lak ter cried, 
 fur I cudden't see nuffiin' but de trees in de dim moonlight, 
 an' I heurd nuffin' but de hoot ob de owl ober in de woods. 
 I felt so cuis I cudden't go ter sleep, fur I wus sho' Marse 
 Henry's spirrit wus summers erbout, an' dat he cudden't rest 
 in his grabe on ercount ob de weddin', an' I jest walked down 
 to de gate whar I last seed 'im five yeahs befo' go down de 
 road, nurver to cum back enny mo'; eb'rything wus so nachul 
 I thought I heurd Jap's footfalls ergin, an' den! whut wus 
 dat I seed all dressed in white wid her long hair hangin' down 
 her back an' kneelin 'down under de tree whar she last seed 
 Marse Henry erlive, an' sobbin' lak her hart wud break? De 
 same ghost I seed dat night five years ergo. I cudden't stan' 
 an 'look at sech sacred grief as dat, so I went in my house 
 thinkin' maybe de last one wusn't a ghost sho' 'nuff, but jes'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 87 
 
 Miss Kitty prayin' at de tree she last seed Marse Henry er- 
 live an' weepin' de las' time she cud honorably weep fur 
 him. 
 
 "De naixt day was de big day, but I cudden't stay dar 
 an' see dat sacrilege. 'Sides dat, I felt cuis 'bout seein' Marse 
 Henry's ghost, an' I knowed sumpin' was gwine happen. I 
 knowed it fur sho' when I went in de kitchen next mohnin' 
 an' heurd sister Calline tell how she found er screech owl in 
 Miss Kitty's room dat mohnin'. Sez I to myself: 'Dar! I 
 knows whut gwineter happen now. Po' innercent angel! 
 She'll nurver lib twell termorrow but thang Gawd fur it, 
 fur dat yudder Screech Owl will nurver git in her room!" 
 
 "But when I went to de stable, dar was ernudder sign: 
 Ole Flint, Marse Henry's ole pet houn', an' de bes' one dat 
 urver smelt er deer track, wus stone dead in de stall, dead 
 frum er snake bite, too! 'Dat's dat Estes doin's ergin,' sez I, 
 'Po' innercent Miss Kitty!' An' de cows wus pawin' an' 
 lowin' at de pastur bars! Now ebry body knows dat when 
 de milk cows go ter pawin' an' lowin' in de mohnin' befo' 
 brekfus, somebody gwinter die befo' night. I stood eben 
 dat, but I gin up when I went to de well ter draw water fur 
 de horses, fur dar wus Miss Kitty jes' as plain es she cud be, 
 laid out in her coffin in her bridal dress!" 
 
 "I drapped dat bucket an' lit out frum dar!" 
 
 "An' I went to ole Marster an' beg 'im to let me go 
 down to de lower place, five miles erway; an' I went to de 
 lower place, five miles erway, an' dar I staid all day long 
 waitin' fur de kalamerty to cum, an' groanin' in de spirrit 
 lak de proffit ob ole when he know de buterful city gwinter 
 fall. Fur I seed Miss Kitty dead jes' es plain es I see you!" 
 
 "O. dat wus er terribul day, an' one dat I'll nurver fur- 
 git, an' I sot dar in de cabin an' feasted, an' didn't eat nuffin 
 all day, an' wrastled wid de spirrit in prayer, all day long." 
 
 "De weddin' wus ter cum off at nine er clock at night. I 
 wus settin' in de cabin door by myself, all de yudder darkies 
 had gone to de big home fur de weddin' supper but I didn't
 
 88 SONOS AND STORIES 
 
 wanter go; I bed no stummic dat night I wus all heart, 
 thinkin' 'bout po' Marse Henry an' Miss Kitty's fun'ral dat I 
 knowed wus bleeged ter cum!" 
 
 "Jes es de clock struck nine, I heard er hoss cum up de 
 pike, clatter, clatter, bipperty, bipperty, bipperty, an' 1 
 jumped up mighty nigh er yard high!" 
 
 "I knowed de soun' ob dem feet! I'd kno' 'em in cr 
 million dem was Jap's feet an' I hollered, glory hallyluyer! 
 Befo' I knowed whether ter run under de bed or out on dc 
 pike fur I wus sorter skeerd an' sorter brave er big, 
 strong, fine lookin' man, es brown es er young hick'ry an' 
 sinewy es er race hoss, pulled up his hoss, covered wid sweat 
 an' foam, at de door. Pulled up his hoss quick lak an' 
 nachul too nachul fur dis nigger, fur jes' de moshun of de 
 han' fotch de tears to my eyes fur dat hoss wus Jap, de same 
 blood-lak, cordy-legged, big-nostriled, graceful Jap of old!" 
 
 "An grate Gawd! One look in de blue eyes ob de rider, 
 de fine mouf, de frank, manly face, now bronzed an' er trifle 
 stern, hit wus Marse Henry! Marse Henry!" 
 
 "I jumped up an' sed, 'O, Marse Henry, ghost er no 
 ghost, I'm gwinter hug you! an' I did, hugged him an' 
 Jap, too." 
 
 "An* Marse Henry laf an' sed: 'Wash, my boy, I'm no 
 ghost, but flesh an' blood, an' awful hongry flesh at dat. 
 What am you doin' way down heah? Gib us sumpin' ter eat, 
 fur I'm anxious to git on to de ole place an' we need sumpin' 
 to brace us up. Jap an' I have cum over er hundred miles 
 sence daylight, an' while dat's no long ride fur us, you kno' 
 we bleeged ter hab sumpin' ter run on," he sed laffin'." 
 
 "Lor, sonny, you jes' orter seed me hustle erroun'! An' 
 whilst I wus fixin' 'im sumpin' to eat, he tole me all erbout 
 it, how he hed jined Lopez an' sailed frum Key West, an' 
 all erbout de fights he hed. An' he sed dat he wus de onlies' 
 one left ob all his men, an' dat he owed his life to Jap's heels 
 an' er Spanish gineral. He sed dat when he stormed Las 
 Pozas, his men run ober de Spaniards an' whupped 'em in er
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 89 
 
 twinkle, an' dat sum ob his men begun to hang de Spaniards 
 in return fur hangin' sum ob dairs de yeah befo', but when 
 he foun' it out he tried to stop it an' he run in an' cut down 
 de Spanish gineral dat dey had hung up, but dat his men got 
 mad eben wid him an' mutinied an' he hed to draw his pis 
 tols on his men an' cut down de officer at de point ob his 
 guns, 'kase he sed he wan't fightin' er hangin' war but er 
 civilized war." 
 
 "An he sabed de officer's life an' exchanged 'im an' saunt 
 'im home. De papers wus right in sayin' Marse Henry wus 
 arterwards oberpowered an' hed ter surrender, an' de dozen 
 er two left wus sentenced to be hanged. In vain Marse 
 Henry beg 'em to shoot 'em lak soljers, but dey hung his 
 men befo' his eyes, an' dey wooder hung him, but he bribed 
 de officer in charge wid de gift ob Jap to 'low 'im to be shot 
 and not hung!" 
 
 "De naixt mohnin' when dey led Marse Henry off to be 
 shot, an' when he wus er mile or two frum de lines, de 
 gineral whose life he hed sabed wus waitin' at de spot fur 
 'im, an' commanded de squad to halt, an' den he gib Marse 
 Henry his side-arms an' Jap, dat he foun' de officer wid, an' 
 he sed to Marse Henry: 'Go, you sabed my life onct at de 
 risk ob yo' own. I returns de kompliment.' " 
 
 "An' den Marse Henry told me how he hed went in de 
 sugar bizness an' made er fortune an' now he cum back ergin 
 to lib." 
 
 "But dat wus fo' yeah ago, Marse Henry," sez I; 
 'Why ant you cum home befo' or write us dat you still libin?' 
 An' den Marse Henry's face grew dark es he sed: 'Bekase, 
 Wash, Unkle Robert wrote me befo' de war wus ended, dat 
 Kitty wus married to Estes, an' 
 
 " 'Dat's a lie, Marse Henry,' I shouted, es I cum to my 
 senses ergin an' thout ob Miss Kitty fur de fust time 'dat's 
 er lie! Ole Marster didn't write no sech letter es dat! She 
 ain't married yit least wise dat is ter say O, Marse 
 Henry, am it nine erclock yit? An' she nurver will be fur
 
 90 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 she's boun' ter die to-night, an' I'm waitin' out heah to kno' 
 when to go to de fun'ral po' innercent angel!' an' I spec I 
 begun ter cry. 
 
 "Marse Henry look at me stern lak, an' ax me what I 
 mean. Den I went back an' tole 'im all, an' I seed de tears 
 run down his cheeks es I tole 'im how she hed loved an' 
 suffered all dese yeahs. An' I tole 'im 'bout de ghost scene 
 last night an' how she sobbed under de trees, an' as I tole 
 him I seed 'im shake all over lak er child er sobbin", an' 
 when I tole him 'bout de nurver failin' death signs I'd seen 
 dis mohnin', an' dat I spec right now she dun dead er mar 
 ried 'twould be all de same to her he vaulted wid one leap 
 in de saddle an' I seed Jap's tail fly up es he plunged two 
 spurs in his side an' es he shot erway in de night I heurd 'im 
 say sorter hard lak: 'Foller me, Wash, fur I'm gwinter take 
 er hand in dat fun'ral!' " 
 
 "I jumped on er race filly Ole Marster hed in trainin' at 
 de lower place, an' I follered 'im wid my heart beatin' er 
 drum in my breast, an' de wind playin' er fife in my two 
 years! Lor, sah, dat filly cud fly! but run es she mout, dar 
 sot Marse Henry allers jes' erhaid, lookin' lak er statue on 
 Jap; an' de ole hoss runnin' lak er swamp buck wid de pack 
 at his heels! Runnin', sah, lak he knowed whut wus up an' 
 dat ten minnits now wus wurth ten yeahs termorrow! An' 
 evry now an' den I'd ketch er glimpse ob Marse Henry's 
 back an' heah 'im say: 'Grate Gawd, ef I kin only git dar 
 in time!" 
 
 "Nobody'll urver b'leeve it," continued the old man, "but 
 we broke de five-mile recurd dat night, sho! An' when we 
 cum to de house it wus lit up frum garret to cellar, an' I 
 cud see de guests in de parlors an' halls an' heah de music 
 an' de lafter. But es I rid up closter, my hart sunk in my 
 buzum, an' we bofe pulled up wid er jerk; fur dar, standin' 
 dar in de light ob de bay winders wid flowers above an' belo' 
 an' in de lace ob de curtains, dar stood Miss Kitty! An' de
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 91 
 
 orange blossums wus in her hair, an' a man wus by her side, 
 an' dey wus shakin' hans wid de people. 
 
 "Grate Gawd, dey wus married!" 
 
 "I looked at Marse Henry spectin' to see 'im pale an' 
 shaky lak I wus, an' mighty nigh ready ter fall down often 
 his hoss, but dars whar I overlooked de thurrerbred dat wus 
 in 'im, an' stead ob bein' pale, de lub light wus in his eyes, 
 but he hed dat cuis hard smile on his lips dat allers made 
 me think ob de cocked hammer ob a hair-trigger durringer." 
 
 "He spurred up clost to me an jes' es nachul lak es ef 
 he wus tellin' me ter saddle Jap, an' jes' es quiet es if he wus 
 gwine to church, he sez: 'Wash, be keerful now, fur you 
 may sabe er life wid er level haid. I will ride up to de side 
 porch, jes' whar it reaches to Jap's saddle skirts. I mus' 
 speak to Kitty once mo' befo' I go back to Cuba forcber. 
 Slip in an' tell her sum one wants to see her quickly, on de 
 side porch. Go, an' remember your haid!' " 
 
 "I wus glad ernuf to go. All de sarvents wus now 
 pottrin' in to shake han's wid Miss Kitty, arter de white folks 
 hed shook, an' I cum in nacherly wid de res'. De white folks 
 hed stood back an' wus watchin' our awkward way, an' de 
 room wus full ob flowers an' sweet sents an' hansum folks." 
 
 "But Miss Kitty jes' hanted me I cudden't keep my 
 eyes cffen her. She wus es butiful es truth in de halls ob de 
 angels, an* yet es sad es sorrow at de grabe ob her fust born. 
 She look lak er queen bowin' right an' left, an' her grace 
 shone lak er pillar in a temple. She tried her bes' ter smile 
 on us po' niggers dat had raised her an' lubbed her all her 
 life, but de smile jes' flickered 'round her dark, sad eyes lak 
 er Apri! sunbeam tryin' to git out frum behind er March 
 cloud. When she shuck han's wid me I seen two tears start 
 up in her eyes, lak little silver-side fish dat rise to de surface 
 ob de lake fur air, an' I knowed she wus thinkin' ob Jap an' 
 his rider, an' I cudden't stan' it no longer, I jes' stuck my big 
 mouf up to her lily bloom ob a yeah an' tried to say it easy, 
 but it seemed to me de folks heurd it ober at quartahs, er
 
 92 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 mile erway: "Gawd bless you, Miss Kitty, honey! But cum 
 out on de side porch, quick!" 
 
 "Fur er secon' she looked at me lak she thort I wus 
 crazy, an' den I tried ergin, steppin' on her butiful dress an' 
 little white slipper, I got up so close an' whispered so 
 yearnestly: 
 
 "Miss Kitty! Miss Kitty!! fur Gawd's sake cum out on 
 de side porch, quick!" 
 
 "She nodded her haid, an' I seed she thort sumbody wus 
 in distress, an' es I went out, I seed her excuse herself to de 
 guests an' an' vval, de feller dat was standin' in de winder 
 wid 'er. an' den she gethered her trail in her lef han' an' 
 follered me out es stately es Pharo's darter follered de nig 
 gers ob old." 
 
 Here the old man paused, and a look of triumph glinted 
 in his dim eye, as he said, "Dar am sum scenes in life fixed 
 on our mern'ry so dey git plainer es we gro' older, an' dis 
 wus one. De happiness ob two libes wus at stake, an' I 
 trimbled so I cudden't think, fur I knowed a wurd too soon 
 or too late or out ob place, woulder ruined ebrything. De 
 poppin' ob er match might er brought on er shootin' an' de 
 whinny ob a black hoss es he stood blacker in de night, mout 
 er turned er weddin' inter er fun'ral." 
 
 "I glanced at de side porch dar sot er black hossman 
 on er steed es black es he wus. Not er muscle moved, but I 
 seed two steel-blue eyes shine eben in de darkness. Then 
 out cum Miss Kitty, so nachul lak an' soft an easy: 
 
 " 'What is it, Wash, who wishes to see me?' 
 
 "I pinted to de hoss-man. Den I heurd her step es she 
 walked ercross to de shadder, an' den I heurd er voice cum 
 outer dc shadder: 'Oh, Kitty, my darlin', have you indeed 
 forgotten me?" 
 
 "To my dyin" day I'll see her es she hesertated, tried to 
 advance, stopped, staggered, an' fell into de outstretched 
 arms ob de hoss-man, as she exclaimed pitifully: 'Dear 
 hart, I tole them all de time I wus yores!'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 93 
 
 "An' what you reckon Marse Henry dun? He kissed dat 
 man's wife scanlus, time an' ergin, an' stead ob spurrin' 
 erway wid her lak I spected to see 'im do, an' lak ennybody 
 else wooder dun, he jes' walked wid 'er, dead fainted es she 
 wus, right inter de parlor whar dey all wus, an' laid her 
 gently down on a sofer, an' den he turned 'round lak er 
 majah gineral reviewin' troops, an' he said: 'Uncle Robert, 
 I have a word to say heah!' 
 
 'Wai, sah, 'mazement wan't de wurd. De wimmen 
 screamed an' de men looked lak dey wanted to. Eben Ole 
 Marster cudden't do nuffin' but stare. Estes cum to fust an' 
 made er quick movement to got to de sofer whar Miss Kitty 
 wus, quiet es er spirrit. But when Marse Henry seed 'im, 
 his eyes flashed lak two stars, an' I dodged my haid spectin' 
 to heah er pistol shot naixt, but I didn't, only dis frum 
 Marse Henry, an' it cum frum 'im lak er battery, es he laid 
 one han' on er instrument dat hed bin all through de Cuban 
 fight: 
 
 "'Stand whar you am, sah! fur I'm heah to settle wid 
 you fust!' 
 
 "An' then he turned loose. Gawd, sah, he towered ober 
 Estes lak er lion dat hed cum home an' foun' er cur in his 
 house. An' all de time his eyes shone like lightning an' his 
 face was sot lak er jedge's, an' his voice was lak er god's! 
 He pulled de forged letter out an' ole Marster read it, an' 
 Miss Kitty cum to an' read it, an' he tole Miss Kitty how 
 he writ to her time an' ergin an' at las' got dis letter. An' 
 she cried lak er hart would break, an' she tole how she hed 
 writ to him time an' ergin befo' she heurd he wus dead, an' 
 nurver got no letter, an' befo' I knowed it I jes' hollered 
 out: 'O, hit pays to be postmaster, hit do!' 
 
 "An, sah, whut do you reckon ole Marster dun? He jes' 
 hugged Marse Henry an' wrung his han' an' call 'im his 
 son, an' den he got so mad he lost his ole haid, an" cum 
 runnin' out in de hall, an' sed: 'Wash! Wash!! Bring me
 
 94 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 my pistols, Wash! The forgin' villain to dare marry a gen 
 tleman's darter!* 
 
 "In er minnit he cum runnin' back wid er pair ob dur- 
 rungers in his han's an ernudder pair in his eyes, an' he 
 rushed up to Marse Henry an* sed: 'Henry, my son, you 
 shan't kill *im! Let you ole unkle hab dat pleasure. The 
 forger! Why, he married my darter, an" I thort he wus er 
 gentleman!" " 
 
 "But Estes wus gone, gone to parts unknown. An" 
 Miss Kitty wus laffin' an' cryin', in Marse Henry's arms. 
 beio' all de guests an* ebrybody. an* oie Marster stop sorter 
 shot-lak, when he seed 'er fur he want prepared fur dat, an* 
 Marse Henry la fed an' pulled out ernudder paper er little 
 slip ob paper, an' den he sed: 'In de sweetness ob dis hour 
 I furgib 'im, Unkle, Besides, he ain't married yore darter. 
 Dis little instrument am jes' five yeahs de oldes*. I'm sorry. 
 Unkle,' he sed wid er twinkle in hes eyes dat belied his appol- 
 lergy, 'but I married Kitty de night beio' I ief five yeahs ago. 
 Heah is de license an' dis am Squire Sander's signature an" 
 why hello, Squire, I'm glad to see you ergin!" es Squir- 
 Sanders an" all de folks he knowed flocked erroun" 'im to 
 shake his han'." 
 
 "Gawd, sah, dat wus er happy night! But nuffin' wud 
 do Ole Marster but dat dey mu" be married ober ergin by 
 de Piskolopinm preacher, an' in gran' style, too." 
 
 "So in erbont er hour Maise Henry cum out. dressed 
 in de unerfonn ob er Majah Gineral. an" dey wus married 
 ergin an' de han'somes* pair dat eber sed yes to de preach 
 er. An' when I went up to shake dey hand'. Marse Henry 
 tell me to stan' by hes side, an' den he pull out ernudder 
 paper, one jes' freshly writ, an' he read it to all de folks 
 thang Gawd, he bad bought me from ole Marster!" 
 
 ' An' den he turned round to me, nigger dat I wus. an' 
 he sed wid er tear in hes manly eye: 'Wash, a true frien' 
 aoi a jewel on de finger ob life. I fout too hard for de free-
 
 FROM TEHNESSEE. 
 
 dom ob others to see my bes* frien* a slave. I bare booghf 
 yon frum Unkle Robert, as dis bill ob sale will show. Take 
 it; you are free!'" 
 
 "7 drapped at bis feet an' cried an 7 kissed his ban*, bat 
 he pulled me np, an' es he put five big gol' pieces in my 
 ban' he lafed an' sed: 'An' these are from my wife, for 
 valoabul assistance rendered at her fun'ralf 
 
 "An' as I kissed her sweet ban', Gawd bless her, she 
 looked np at Marse Henry lamn' by her side, an' de 
 she gib him was Uk de break ob day in Heaven!** 
 
 TO A WILD ROSE OX AX IXDIAX GRAVE. 
 
 IN the pasture where the grasses are die first to herald 
 spring, 
 
 And the meadow lark flits upward on his parachntal wing, 
 Where the wild vines weave their netting and the wild winds 
 
 wander free, 
 
 Thou art blooming in thy beauty now, sweet rose of Chero 
 kee. 
 
 All around thee is that freedom, part and pared of thy file, 
 Untutored is thy every grace with native sweetness riie. 
 The spirit of the maiden whom the Choctaw chieftain stole* 
 Thou sprangest from her lonely grave, the rosebod of her 
 sonL 
 
 Didst thon weave those golden Vi**^ 'mid the 
 
 long gone by, 
 
 In the loom of Indian summer with the J"t a M* of the sky? 
 And that rare and dainty perfume, liiiling hmhcirt of thy 
 
 birth? 
 'Tis the infant breath of nature in the May-day of the earth.
 
 96 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 In those rows of yellow pistils, platoon formed, with spears of 
 
 stars, 
 Didst thou pilfer from the lark's breast while he sang his 
 
 sweetest bars? 
 And that blush of faintest crimson, tinging soft thy petal's 
 
 peak? 
 'Tis the red bird's mirrored plumage in the dew-drop on thy 
 
 cheek. 
 
 In those drooping, twining branches, bending low in jeweled 
 
 bloom, 
 Thou but weavest wreaths of beauty for the sleep of Beauty's 
 
 tomb, 
 And that snowy, clust'ring garland springing upward and 
 
 above 
 Tis the risen soul of virtue in the robes of virtue's love. 
 
 Ah! 'tis many circling seasons since thou first bloomed o'er 
 the mound, 
 
 Where the Indian maiden slumbered and the wild fawn wan- 
 der'd round; 
 
 Since thou heardst the Spanish bugle, saw De Soto's steel- 
 clad lines, 
 
 As they trampled in their armor o'er thy timid, clinging 
 vines. 
 
 But through all those changing seasons, thou hast reared 
 
 thy modest head 
 
 Nature's shaft of living marble o'er the ashes of thy dead, 
 Teaching all the world a lesson, older than the spangled sky 
 The good shall live forever, and the pure shall never die. 
 
 *The legend of the Cherokee Rose is, that a Cherokee 
 maiden, being stolen by a neighboring chief, died, longing to 
 go back to her tribe. A rose was afterwards found blooming 
 on her grave, and by the Indians named in her honor.
 
 O 
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 97 
 
 A HARVEST SONG. 
 
 THE mellow days of autumn 
 
 How I love to see them come, 
 When the harvest army marches 
 To the bittern's noisy drum. 
 
 Every day is full of sweetness, ev'ry night is full of song 
 And the air is full of ripeness as the breezes sweep along. 
 The mocking-bird, awakened by the flood of soothing light, 
 Weaves a golden thread of music in the silver woof of night, 
 While the rustling of a thousand flashing blades amid the corn, 
 Like an army in the moonlight waits the reaper of the morn. 
 
 O, the mellow days of autumn 
 
 How I love to see them come, 
 When, like an Indian princess, 
 Stands the maple, and the gum. 
 
 All the earth is full of beauty, all the sky in azure fold, 
 
 And the sunshine in its softness melts in dreamy waves of 
 
 gold, 
 The wild goose flying southward sounds his startled, clarion 
 
 note, 
 And the trumpet of the harvest march is in his echoing 
 
 throat, 
 While the flashing of a thousand cotton banners* 'mid the 
 
 corn, 
 Like our skies, are red at evening but are silver in the morn. 
 
 O, the mellow nights of autumn 
 
 When the harvest moon is queen 
 And the stars, like little reapers, 
 
 Flash their tiny blades between, 
 
 How they thrill me with a sweetness that is oversweet to last,
 
 98 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Like a glory of the present in a halo of the past, 
 
 And they fill my heart with achings, with a sweet and tender 
 
 pain, 
 
 Like the mem'ry of a music that I ne'er shall hear again, 
 And they fill my soul with longings and they fill my eyes with 
 
 tears, 
 Like a half forgotten laughter in the long forgotten years. 
 
 O, the mellow nights of autumn 
 
 They are coming in a throng, 
 And the harvest moon is with them 
 
 And she sings the reaper's song. 
 
 *The cotton bloom is white in the morning and red at 
 evening. 
 
 THE OLD MEADOW SPRING. 
 
 DOWN through the red-top blooming in the sun, 
 On to the vine-covered trees, 
 A barefoot boy through the path I'd run 
 Like a swallow on the evening breeze. 
 Quick to the big rocks cropping from the ground 
 
 'Neath the trees where the sweet birds sing, 
 With a leap and a bound I'd clamber down 
 To drink at the meadow spring. 
 
 O, the old meadow spring, 
 To its moss-grown banks I'd cling, 
 And with hat for a gourd I would quaff like a lord 
 The cool, sparkling waters of the spring. 
 
 Pouring from the rocks 'mid pebbles so white, 
 
 And fringing the moss with pearl, 
 Then speeding away in flashes of light 
 
 To the pool with its eddying whirl.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 99 
 
 The wild mint wafts its odor from below 
 On the sweep of the cool wind's wing, 
 
 While the dark shining row of the blackberries grow 
 On the brink of the meadow spring. 
 
 O, the old meadow spring, 
 Heaven's drink to man you bring, 
 With the mint and the red of the purpling berry head 
 All mirror'd in the depths of the spring. 
 
 Stretched on the green grass, musing in the shade 
 
 (To the drip, tinkle, drip, of the stream) 
 I wonder if above such a spot was made 
 
 For spirits in their heavenly dream. 
 Watching the water-witch dancing about 
 
 On the waves in her silvery ring, 
 With a laugh and shout I'd put her to rout 
 
 And plunge in the meadow spring. 
 
 O, the old meadow spring, 
 How I long once more to fling 
 All my burdens aside in your silvery tide, 
 And be a boy at the meadow spring. 
 
 THE WOLF HUNT ON BIG BIGBY. 
 
 1SEE de dudes hev got up er new sport up ter Yankee 
 Ian'," said Old Wash the other day. "Dey calls it Golf 
 huntin'. Hes it got enny thing ter do wid wolf huntin'?" 
 he. asked. "Ef it hes, I jes' wanter say I'll go to New Jarsey 
 ter see it ergin," said the old man, as he sat down on the 
 wood-pile and laughed as if he was tickled immensely. 
 
 "Why, no, it hasn't anything to do with wolf hunting. 
 Why do you ask?" I said.
 
 I00 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "Wai, de names sounded sorter lak, an' de folks dat plays 
 it am de same sorter fellers dat cum down to our home way 
 back in de fall ob '35 ter hunt wolves. But let me put dis 
 ax in de kitchen cellar fus'," he said, as he hobbled across the 
 yard. "I nurver cud tell enny thing wid er ax or er hoe 
 starin' me in de face an' 'mindin' me dat man wus made ter 
 saw wood. 
 
 "Dis country ain't whut hit useter be when Marse Bill 
 Young settled down on Big Bigby way back 'bout ateen- 
 twenty-fo'. You nurver seen sech Ian' in all yore life de 
 grandes' forests dat eber sot on de face of de yearth, an' 
 de cane so big dat you hed ter cut roads through it lak it 
 wus er wilderness. An' de new groun'! Wai, sah, I nurver 
 seed sich crops sence de good Lord made me! Why, down 
 in de new groun' dat we cleaned up we didn't hafter plant 
 but half er grain er corn " 
 
 "Half a grain! Why?" 
 
 "Why, good gracious, sah, er haf 'er grain made er stalk 
 twenty foot high! Whut we wanter plant er whole grain fer, 
 an' haf sich high corn we cudden't pull it wid wun ob dese 
 yeah fire ladders! An' punkins! Marse Bill Young tried 'em 
 wun yeah in de black locus' new groun', an' arter dat he gin 
 strick orders fur nobody ter nurver ter plant er punkin seed 
 in ten miles er his farm ergin." 
 
 "Why?" I asked. The old man scratched his head as if 
 pondering whether to give his reasons or not. 
 
 "Bekose," he said, "de punkin vines tuck de plantashun, 
 and sum ob 'em run for miles up in de hills, an' de naixt 
 spring when Ole Marster went out ter survey an' preempt 
 mo' Ian', he cum back home mad es de debbil, an' sed ebry 
 mile or two, fur ten miles eround, sum po' white folks frum 
 de mountins hed cum out in de spring ob de yeah, an' whar 
 eber dey foun' er punkin dey hed squatted on de Ian', scooped 
 out de punkin, built er chimbly in wun eend, put in er door 
 an' winders, an' wus libbin dar mighty cheerful lak an' con-
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. IOI 
 
 tented twell dey cud build 'em er little bigger home. Ole 
 Marster'd owned haf de county ef it hand't been fur dat, 
 sho'!" 
 
 "Wash," I said, looking him steadily in the eye, "you 
 have gone to lying in your old age." 
 
 "Grate Gord," he said, with a look such as Elijah cast 
 on the prophets of Baal, "thet enny wun should excuse me 
 ob dat in my ole aige! An' me tellin' whut I seed wid my 
 own eyes an' heurd Ole Marster say, too. But dat ain't heah 
 nor dar. I'se tellin' you 'bout de wolf hunt. 
 
 "Dar wus er ole she wolf dat libbed down in de cane dat 
 wus jes' er little de bes' wolf enny body eber seed. She jes' 
 libbed on our sheep an' horgs, an' dar want no dorg cud bes' 
 her. Ole Marster tried hees pack er houn's on 'er, an' she 
 cleaned 'em up in ten minits. Den Cap'n Jim Estes tried 
 hees pack on 'er, an dey all cum home lookin' lak rigiment 
 flags arter de battle ob Waterloo. Den dey raised er crowd 
 ob de boss fightin' dorgs ob de settlement de brindled kind 
 an' de b'ar-fightin' kind an' dey all hem de ole wolf up in de 
 cane an' rush in ter de tune ob 'Hail, de Konk'rin' Hero 
 Cum,' but, bless yore soul, sah, in erbout five minits dey all 
 cum out howlin' 'De Gal I Lef Benin' Me!' 
 
 "Den de whole settlement riz up in arms. Dar want er 
 man dar dat dat ole wolf hadn't wusted hees dorg, an' I've 
 alters noticed dat when you hurt er man's dorg you jes' es 
 well hit hees chilluns. Hit makes 'im er heap madder. We'd 
 er whipped de British long 'fo' we did ef dey hed cum ober 
 heah an' 'stead ob taxin' us widout misrepresentashun dey'd 
 cuffed sum ob our no-'count dorgs erround. Dis whole coun 
 try woulder riz an' whipped 'em out in three days. Ole 
 Patrick Henry an' Boston Massacre wodden er bin in it. 
 
 "But Ole Marster wus a jus man, an' he sed dat wolf 
 wus er free-born 'Merican wolf, an' no man should ambush 
 her an' kill 'er wid er rifle. She shud have er fair chance an' 
 er fair fight if she et ebry pig on hees place. Ef dey had dorgs
 
 I0 2 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 good enough ter kill 'er, all right; ef dey didn't she mout 
 jes' lib on. O, Ole Marster wus a white man, I tells you; an' 
 hees wurd went in dat settlement. So dey jes' gib up an' let 
 de ole wolf have it her way. 
 
 "Not long arter dat Ole Marster went to New York on 
 bizness, an' ter hev er good time at de theaters an' sich. 
 Ole Marster wus er swell when de 'cashyun riz but he didn't 
 let it rise too often. When he come back he sorter laugh an' 
 say: 
 
 " 'Washington, I've invited de New Jarsey huntin' club 
 down ter do up de ole wolf in de Big Bigby cane brake. 
 Dey'll bring er dozen imported Roosh'n wolf houn's dat 
 dey say am prize fighters, an' will rid us ob de ole witch.' 
 
 " 'All right,' sez I. 'Marster, I'll sho' see dat dey finds 
 de enemy.' 
 
 "Wai, sah, in erbout two weeks er mo' heah dey all cum, 
 an' bless yore life, honey, you nurver did see sich swells es 
 dey wus. Dey hed on high silk hats, an' grate white collars, 
 an' biled shuts, an' speckled cravats, an' satin vests, an' cor 
 duroy pants, an' pump-soled boots. An' you b'leeve whut 
 I say? Sho' 'nuff! Wai, sah, I'll swear dey hed sho' nuff 
 white folks ter wait on 'em! To' Gord hit's er fac'l Huh! 
 Bless yore soul, we niggers didn't 'sociate wid dem, dough. 
 Dey ain't no 'ristocratic nigger gwine 'sociate wid secon'- 
 class white folks. An' de dorgs! Now you heurd my horn! 
 Dey fotch er dozen ob de slickes'-lookin', big-haided, flap- 
 yeared, wus-lookin" houn' dorgs you eber seed, chained two 
 an 'two, an' er man jes' ter take keer ob 'em. But I 'spected 
 sumpin wus wrong soon es I seed 'em, an' dat night when 
 Marster set out a decanter ob fus-class mountin' whisky wid 
 lump-sugar an' mint, an' ax 'em ter take er drink, an' dey all 
 'fuse kase dey say dar 'stummicks cudn' stan' sich crude 
 licker,' an' dey would jes' take er little claret wine dey hed 
 in dere trunks, den I knowed de whole layout cudn't bag er 
 kildee. Wai, sah, dey didn't do nuffin' but talk erbout de
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 103 
 
 pedergree ob dem houn's an' whut hit cost ter git 'em heah, 
 an' how menny wolves dey kill in Roosher in wun day, an' 
 how sabage dey wus, an' sum ob de niggers wus list'nin' at 
 de winders an' didn't hab no mo' sense den to b'leeve it, an' 
 hit spread all ober the plantashun an' skeered de pickerninies 
 so dey all sleep wid dey haids under de kiver dat night. 
 
 "Wai, de naixt day Ole Marster mounted 'em an' dey 
 blowed dey horns an' got de houn's an' de keeper an' went off 
 in gran' style. I rid er gray mule an' went erlong ter show 
 'em de game. Wai, we wa'nt no time gettin' dar, fur de ole 
 wolf hed er cane swamp whar she libbed an' wus boss in, an' 
 ebry body knowed it. 
 
 "Hit muster bin de wrong time ob be moon fur de dorgs 
 er de right time ob de moon fur de wolf enny way we struck 
 her in wun ob her wo'st moods. Hit peered ter me she'd 
 bin pinin' all her life fur er pack ob Roosh'n wolf houn's an' 
 dude hunters, an' I hev no doubt ef she'd bin axed into Del- 
 monicy's ter name her bill ob fare she'd er named er dozen 
 Roosh'n wolf houn's on de half shell dem dat's got confi 
 dence in deysels an' am fat an' sassy. I can't 'spress ter you 
 how happy an' delighted an' highly complimented she wus 
 when she seed dese hunters hed imported 'em fo' thousand 
 miles jes' fer her special benefit. Fur fear dey might think 
 she was lacking' in professional kurtesy she cum out ob her 
 lair, in er nice cleared place, an' met de furriners wid de 
 blandes' smile. Den she back hersef ergin er clay root ter 
 protec' her r'ar an' got down to bizness. 
 
 "Boss, dat fight wus soon ober. De fus' fool houn' dat 
 went in she broke hees back wid wun snap ob her steel-trap 
 jaws de naixt wun got hees throat cut lak er razor. Dem 
 furrin dorgs hed er furrin language, an' de dyin' yelp ob de 
 fus' wus er heabenly translashun fur de yuthers, an' dey lit 
 out. Dey all went back ter Roosher by way ob de Norf 
 Pole an' de ismus of Cant-Ketchem an' dey went in er hurry. 
 De dudes got mad an' called an' hollered, but dey wan't er 
 furrin houn' in the county in two hours.
 
 104 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "But de fun hed jes' begun. De ole lady bein' diser- 
 p'inted, got b'ilin' mad. She kerried de wa' into dudedom. 
 She run de keeper up er black-gum tree an den lit into de 
 hunters an' you orter seed 'em cum outer dat swamp. Some 
 ob 'em didn't stop runnin' fer ten miles! De ole lady fit lak 
 she 'membered 'bout sucklin two genuine white men onct, 
 way back in de days ob Unkle Rum'lus an' Unkle Remus, an' 
 she kno'd whut de right kind ob article wus, an' now in her 
 old aige ter be played off on by er lot ob counterfeits on 
 humanity an' imported dorgs was too much. De darkies on 
 de place say dey heurd de keeper up in de tree prayin' in 
 French all night. 
 
 "De naixt day arter we got 'em off by de fus' stage, Ole 
 Marster lacter laf hesef ter death, an' he say he gwineter pe- 
 tishun congress ter put de ole wolf on de flag by de side ob de 
 'Merican eagle. 
 
 "But how you reckin we got dat ole wolf at las'? Why, 
 me an' er nur'r nigger went possum huntin' wun night wid 
 three good dorgs, an' we got her up thinkin' we hed de bes' 
 coon in de swamp. You know er nigger'll fight all night wid 
 de debbil ef he think its er coon er 'possum, an' twixt us all 
 we manage to beat de ole lady ter death. When we kilt her 
 an' struck er light an' seed whut we hed, we drapped her an' 
 got outer dar faster'n we went in. Hit skeers me ter think 
 uv it now! Whut big things sum folks do widout in- 
 tendin' it!" 
 
 H-H* 
 
 THE SLEEP OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 '""pHEY are sleeping in the valley and on the glist'ning hills, 
 1 And in the wooded nooks beside the winter's frozen 
 
 rills. 
 
 They slumber in their glory with the perfume on their breath, 
 Their beauty and their brightness fled before the touch of 
 death.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. IO 5 
 
 Their bloom life is a memory their sweetness but a dream 
 Of summer days and shaded ways, and nights of starry gleam. 
 
 They are sleeping in the valley but they'll wake some 
 
 joyous day 
 And spring will stand before us in the bridal dress of 
 
 May. 
 
 They are sleeping in the valley, and they wait the Master's 
 
 call 
 
 The rose-buds of our hearth-stone and the lilies of our hall, 
 The violets that bloomed down in the hot-house of our heart, 
 The blue-bells of our cradles how the quick tears upward 
 
 start! 
 
 Their child-life is a memory their visit but a dream 
 Of childish ways and prattling days how long ago they 
 
 seem! 
 
 They are sleeping in the valley but they'll wake with 
 
 joyous glee 
 When the Master holds His dear hands out, and says: 
 
 "Come unto me." 
 
 "HUNTIN' O' THE QUAIL." 
 
 DID you ever go a-huntin' on a crisp November morn, 
 When the frost had hung his laces on the locust and 
 
 the thorn, 
 
 When the air was like a tonic an' the sky was like a tone, 
 An' a kind o' huntin' fever seemed a burnin' in your bone? 
 O, the music in the clatter as you canter to the fiel's! 
 O, the echo in the patter of the dogs upon your heels! 
 What a picture for a painter when the setters make a stand 
 While that dreamy gleamy silence seems to settle on the land!
 
 106 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Are you ready, boys? 
 
 "Ready!" 
 (Click! click! click!) 
 Come, steady, dogs! 
 
 "Steady!" 
 
 (Click, click, click!) 
 
 Then 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
 
 Bang! Bang! Bang! 
 
 An' 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
 
 Bang! Bang! Bang! 
 
 An' your heart jumps like a rabbit tho' you didn't touch a 
 
 tail- 
 Still, you'd like to live forever just a-huntin' o' the quail! 
 
 Did you ever stop for luncheon on a bright November noon, 
 Where the pines were lispin' lullabies an' the winds were all 
 
 a-croon, 
 
 Where a spring was just a-singin' an' a-dancin' down a hill, 
 An' you tapped the tank where Nature runs her everlastin' 
 
 still? 
 How the beaten biscuits fade beneath the fervor of your 
 
 kiss! 
 
 How the sandwiches are laid beneath a blighting that is bliss! 
 What an appetite for eatin' you discover you have got 
 O, wouldn't you be champion were you half as good a shot? 
 Are you ready, boys? 
 
 "Ready!" 
 
 (Tap, tap, tap!) 
 
 Are you steady, boys? 
 
 " Steady!" 
 (Tap, tap, tap!) 
 Then 'tis guggle, guggle, guggle, guggle! 
 
 Pop! Pop! Pop! 
 
 An' 'tis google, google, google, google! 
 Pop! Pop! Pop!
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 107 
 
 'Till you toss away the bottle as you would a twice-told-tale 
 O, ain't it just too fine a sport! this huntin' o' the quail? 
 
 Did you ever come from huntin' on a sweet November eve, 
 When the sun was sorter sorry such a dreamy day to leave, 
 When your heart was like a feather, an' your bag was 
 
 like a lead, 
 
 An' the liltin' of a lark was like a vesper overhead? 
 An' you found a poem strayin' an' a-swayin' on the gate 
 While she chides you for a-stayin' with Diana out so late! 
 O, of course you stop to greet 'er an' to give 'er half your 
 
 birds 
 
 Ev'ry poem has a meter so you meet 'er with these words: 
 Do you love me, Susie? 
 
 " Love you!" 
 
 (Kiss, kiss, kiss!) 
 
 Will you wed me, Susie? 
 
 "Wed you!" 
 
 (Bliss, bliss, bliss!) 
 
 Then 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
 
 (Your heart, your heart,) 
 
 An' 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
 
 (Her heart, her heart,) 
 
 Just a-flutterin' like a covey with Cupid on their trail 
 O, it beats all kind o' huntin' when you bag that kind o' quail! 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF MAY. 
 
 AND now she stands upon enthroning hills 
 And tosses wreaths of roses o'er the world, 
 With banner'd bloom about her head unfurl'd 
 And at her feet the music loving rills 
 While winter's lingering stirrup-cup with frothy clouds 
 she fills.
 
 I0 8 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 The blue sky hangs above her like a veil, 
 
 And, dropping low, fringed with divinest lace, 
 It adds a softened shyness to that face, 
 Which, like a maid in love, now pink, now pale, 
 Needs but one look from earth to blush and tell its love- 
 blown tale. 
 
 One slipper'd foot, flushed as the blossoming trees, 
 Is thrust, half naked, in the bloom and spray 
 Of orchards, where throughout the dreamy day 
 The sunshine glints the wings of weaving bees, 
 And all her children, music mad, doth touch their thou 
 sand keys. 
 
 And baby vines, awakening, have wound 
 
 And twined a bracelet bloom about her arms, 
 While 'round her waist, 'neath nestling charms, 
 A russet belt, with beaded berries bound 
 The sun-maid's belt, dropped at her bath, which lover 
 earth had found. 
 
 And Music dreams and pines and sighs 
 Within her eyes. And Poesy is there, 
 Prophetic-faced, with sun-red, Sappho hair. 
 And Hope above, star-vestal'd vigil keeps 
 And throws a ray of ripeness o'er that face where unborn 
 Harvest sleeps. 
 
 GRAY GAMMA. 
 
 I AIN'T never tole you 'bout dat hoss race down to Ash- 
 wood, when Marse Bill Young bet me ergin two 
 thousand dollars of er Missippy gemman's money, has I?" 
 asked old Wash the other night, after he had come in to tell
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 109 
 
 me the young Jersey heifer had found a calf in the meadow 
 lot that day. "Wai/ sah, I've seed many er race, but dat wus 
 de most interestines' one, frum my p'int ob view, dat I eber 
 seed, 'kase I wus the principalist stakes, an' dey stood me on 
 er stump, an' nuthin' but dat filly's grit saved me frum bein' 
 a dead nigger in Missippy terday, 'stead ob a eminently 
 'spectable cullered gemman frum de race-hoss state ob Ten 
 nessee. 
 
 "I had er mighty good marster wus Marse Bill Young 
 an' he wus de fust man ter bring thurrerbreds to de 
 country. Ain't I neber tole you 'bout dat bay colt, Firefly, 
 by Dan Rice, out of Margerite, by 'Merican 'Clipse? Heish! 
 Long es I bin wid you, I ain't neber tole you 'bout dat colt? 
 For de Lawd's sake! 
 
 "Wall, sah, he wus de bes' t'ree-year-ole I eber put er 
 shoe on. Fus' dam by 'Merican 'Clipse; second dam by 
 Timoleon; third dam by " 
 
 "Never mind about his dams," I remarked, as I gave 
 the old man a cut of "Williamson County Twist," which I 
 always kept in the drawer for him; "just go on with the race." 
 
 "Wai, sah, I had er mighty good marster was Marse 
 Bill Young an' he wus de fust man to bring thurrerbreds 
 to de country, es I wus sayin'. He didn't hab but one fault, 
 an' dat was dat he'd bet ennything in de wurl' he had, 'cept 
 his wife an' chilluns, on his own hosses. He neber did 
 think enny ob his own hosses could be beat, but he cum 
 mighty nigh changin' his 'pinion 'bout dat thing onc't, an' 
 losin' erbout de valu'blest nigger in Murry county to boot. 
 Dat nigger wus me. Mind you, I ain't blowin' my own horn 
 nobody eber heurd me doin' dat but I'm jes' tellin' you 
 what Marse Bill Young said hisself. 
 
 "I was de blacksmith. fur de plantashun, an' shod all de 
 thurrerbreds. An' right now I can gib any ob dese here 
 new-fangled hoss-shoers er lesson or two, 'kase we knowed
 
 1 10 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 how ter shoe hosses in dem days; ef I hadn't I wouldn't er 
 bin in this state terday. 
 
 "Wai, sah, 'bout long in Febrery 'way back in de forties 
 dar cum er gemmen frum Missippy wid er string er thur- 
 rerbreds gwine to Nashville fur de spring races. De Lawd 
 sake! Dey used ter hang up purses in dem days! Why, 
 dis same mare, Gray Gamma, dat I'm tellin' you 'bout, won 
 forty thousand dollars fur Ole Marster in one purse won 
 it in er walk but, bless yer soul Ole Marster spent it in 
 er fly! He wus er white gemmen! Munny wa'nt what he 
 wus livin' fur. He wus livin' ter race hosses. 
 
 "Wai, sah, ez I wus sayin', all de gemmen dat passed 
 thru de country in dem days, befo' de railroads, jes' went 
 out and stopped at Ole Marster's de common folks put 
 up at de hotel an' so, ez I wus sayin', de Missippy man he 
 put up at Ole Marster's too, wid all his hosses an' niggers 
 an' teams an' borrows fur to borrow de track wid, when 
 dey get to Nashville. 
 
 "Wai, sah, dey had a mair in dat string frum Missippy 
 dat dey laid great stress on. De Missippy nigger tole me 
 in conferdence she could outrun her shadder wid one leg 
 tied up an' she cud! How did I know? Wai, de truf is, me 
 an' de Missippy nigger gib her an' Firefly er midnight trial 
 one moonlight night fur er poun' er Tennessee terbacco, 
 while Ole Marster an' de owner wus playin' poker for keeps 
 in de billiard-room. Dey called de mare 'Mary Lef',' an' 
 all I know is she lef me an' Firefly dat night jes' lak we 
 wus er pair er mud muels stuck in er clay bank. Jimminy! 
 how she could run! 
 
 "De nex' day Ole Marster cum ter me lookin' sorter 
 worried fur he thout er heap er me an' he said: 
 
 " 'Wash, I'm feared I play de mischief las' night,' sez 
 he. 
 
 " 'How so, Marster?' sez I. 
 
 " 'Well, Wash, you know dey can't nobody bluff me
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. in 
 
 when it comes to my bosses. Dey am as good as dey make 
 'em. An' all I've got ter say ter you is dat I called de 
 Majah's bluff las' night when he talked erbout Mary LeP 
 beatin' Firefly. I bet him you, an' Firefly, ergin two thou 
 sand dollars an' Mary Lef, dat he couldn't do it dat's 
 all an' ef Firefly can't win, you jes' as well make up your 
 mind to tell us all good-bye. De race comes off day after 
 termorrer, an' er gem'man don't gib his word but onc't. 
 You may shoe de colt termorrer evenin',' and he- walk off es 
 onconcerned ez if he wuz tellin' me ter go an' kill hogs. 
 
 "But great sakes! What er knot riz in my throat! I 
 didn't mind it ef I'd only had er dog's chance but I done 
 seed what de mair could do an' I knowed dey wus playin' 
 er game on Marster, an' dey knowed it, too. An' me ter 
 leave Dinah an' de babies an' ole Tennessee an' all I had on 
 sech a chance es dat? Wai, sah, I jest' went off an* cried. I 
 knowed it wa'nt no use ter go an' tell Marster all 'bout what 
 me an' de Missippy nigger done, 'kase de debbil hissef 
 couldn't make him break his wurd an' I'd er got er cow- 
 hidin' ter boot. I jes' made up my mind dat all dey wus 
 in life was ober fer Wash. 
 
 "Wai, sah, when de news spread, an' Dinah heurd it, dar 
 wus er scene. She 'lowed she'd go an' beg Marster ter let 
 her an' de babies go too, an' I neber will forgit de night 
 we went up to de big house me an' Dinah to beg Marster 
 not ter sep'rate us. Wai, sah, he cum out on de poach es 
 tall an' dignified es ef he owned de yearth but I knowed 
 he had a warm heart fur all dat an' Dinah wus cryin' an' 
 I wus mighty silent, and Dinah said: 
 
 " 'Marster, please don't sep'rate us, but jes' put me an' de 
 babies up, too,' an' she could say no more. 
 
 "Marster looked sorter troubled, lak he hadn't thout 
 erbout de thing befo', an' he walked ter de drawin' room an' 
 said, quietly lak: 
 
 " 'Majah Fellows, will you step heah er moment?'
 
 112 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "An' de Missippy gem'man step out on de poach an' 
 we step back in de shadder, an' Ole Marster says, sez he: 
 
 " 'Majah, I wus a little hasty in my bet the other night. 
 I had forgot dis boy had er young wife an' two chilluns. I 
 have neber sep'rated a man an' his wife in fact, sah, neber 
 sold one ob my niggers an' fur de sake ob common hu 
 manity I would like to amend my bet, if ergreeable ter you.' 
 
 " 'State your amendment, sah,' said the Missippy man, 
 coldly. 
 
 " 'The condition of our match, sah,' said Ole Marster, 
 quietly, 'wus four mile heats, an' two thousand against my 
 nigger. I kno' yer mair is de fastest, but I believe Firefly 
 can outlast her. He's bred to stay, an' de only chance I 
 have to win is to comply with the four-mile condition. But, 
 in order not to sep'rate this boy an' his wife, I will make 
 the distance only a mile an' a half, an' in case you win I'll 
 put up the woman an' her two children an' a thousand dol 
 lars in gold ergin the boy alone, that my three-year-old 
 filly, Gray Gamma, will beat your mair, Mary Lef, at the 
 same distance.' 
 
 " 'Sence you wish it, sah, so be it,' said the Majah, 'but 
 an' hit made my blood bile when I heurd him add 'it 
 must also be added that the winner of the last race gets 
 both horses contestin'.' 
 
 "Ole Marster flushed, 'kase it looked lak de Missippy 
 man wanted the yearth. It wan't so bad to lose me an' 
 Dinah, but I knowed Ole Marster didn't wanter run no 
 risk 'bout losin' de filly, an' when he said 'all right, sah,' I 
 knowed he dun it jes' for our sake. But when he mentioned 
 Gray Gamma my heart give er leap, fur I knowed her blood 
 wus es pyore es de icicle dat hangs on Dinah's temple, an' 
 es hot es de hartdraps dat flows thru' Juno's veins fur I 
 heard Ole Marster say it menny er time. She had de meanes' 
 temper in creashun, an' would hab her way or die. She wus 
 mighty nigh spiled in her two-year-old form an' hadn't been
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 113 
 
 raced sence; but she peered to hab got ober it, an' I heurd 
 de trainer tell Ole Marster de Lawd only knowed how fas' 
 she could run. After we went home I told Dinah all erbout 
 de filly, an' dat night we rastled wid de angel in pra'ar 
 we prayed dat de angel might take de crotchets outen de 
 filly's head we knowed she'd do the rest. 
 
 "Wai, sah, when de day cum, de whole neighborhood 
 turned out. Ole Marster put me on er stump an' de Mis- 
 sippy gen'man put er bag of gold beside me, an' Firefly an' 
 Mary LeP come up an' was soon erway. Spite of de fact 
 dat I knowed we had no chance, my heart jes' lak ter break 
 out er my buzzum. I saw Dinah cryin' in de wagon whar 
 she an' de babies wus, an' den I looked at Ole Marster 
 he wus jes' smokin' er seegar lak he wus lookin' at er heat 
 ergin time, an' sez I, 'sho'ly he ain't got no heart,' but I 
 knowed better befo' de race wus ober. Firefly was game 
 an' staid wid de mair I cu'd see he wus better at de mile 
 dan he wus at de haf, an' better a quarter furder on dan he 
 wus at de mile, an' I seed what er fool I wus not ter let Ole 
 Marster make it fo' miles, an' jes' es I begin to think an' 
 hope dat Firefly would beat her ennyway, Mary Lef's rider 
 went to de whip de mair made er spurt an' pushed her 
 nose erhead, I heurd er shout, an' I b'longed to de Missippy 
 man! 
 
 "I got offen de stump. I cudn't see which way ter go, 
 I wus cryin' so. Ole Tennessee neber looked so sweet ter 
 me befo'. De wheat fiel's looked greener an' de cabins 
 whiter an' de hills had a charm I neber had known befo'. 
 I cudn't hardly walk twell I heurd Ole Marster say: 'Wash, 
 you am de property of Majah Fellows,' jes' lak he wus gibin' 
 erway er dog, an' sez I to myself, 'sho'ly Ole Marster is 
 crazy he ain't got no soul.' An' I leaned ergin de stump. 
 Den I heurd him say: 
 
 " 'Majah, while your mair is coolin' out I'll ask your
 
 U4 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 permission to let this boy change my filly's shoes he has 
 bin my blacksmith, you kno'.' 
 
 " 'Sartenly, sah,' said de Majah. 
 
 "An' right dar is whar Marster had sense an' I didn't. 
 It wus a cold day an' de groun' wus nearly frozen an' de 
 track wus slick. An' Marster said to me at de shed: 'Select 
 er very light but rough set ob shoes, cork 'em lightly all 
 erround I'm surprised Mary Lef's owner can't see dat her 
 plates are too slick fur ice.' An' den he said, sorter smilin': 
 'You needn't look so solemn, you'll be berried on dat hill 
 yit.' Wai, I dun lak he said, an' dat wus one time I sho' 
 did my bes' at shoein' an' all de time I wus prayin' fur 
 Gray Gramma ter go off right. When I wus through Marster 
 look her ober an' gib her an apple an' patted her neck an' he 
 buckled de girth hisself. 
 
 "When de filly cum out an' de race wus called I noticed 
 Marster wus a changed man he was no longer careless 
 lookin' he throw erway his seegar he see ebry thing; yet 
 he laugh an' joke. I followed his tall form as he went up 
 de stretch to gib de jockey orders, an' es he passed de 
 wagin whar Dinah was cryin', sez he: 'Come, girl, don t be 
 cryin' dar it's prayin' you need pra'ars dat de filly git off 
 right. Ef she do you needn't stay twell de race is ober 
 jes" take de chillun an' go on back to de cabin,' an' he 
 stalked on an' me er followin' him so dazed I cudn't hardly 
 walk. 
 
 "To my dyin' day I'll neber furgit de look dat was in 
 Ole Marster's eye when he went up to de boy dat was ow 
 Gray Gamma. 
 
 " 'Jim,' sez he, 'gimme dat whip,' and he throwed de 
 rawhide ober de fence. 'Dis mair needs pettin' in dis race 
 not whippin'. Now look at me,' an' his steel-blue eyes 
 looked lak Ole Marster cu'd look at times; 'dis race is mine 
 ef you let dis filly get off at fust. Don't cross her; don't
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 115 
 
 stop her; don't draw yer rein. She'll set de pace jes' you 
 set still an' guide her. Do you heah?' 
 
 " 'Yes, Marster,' an' de starter called 'em to de scratch. 
 
 "My heart beat lak a drum. I cudn't hardly breathe; I 
 cudn't stan', an' I sot down on de groun'. I knowed ebery 
 thing depended on de start, dat the filly was lak er spoilt 
 gal, an' ef erlowed her own way she'd go wid de joy an' 
 de bound of er angel; but ef checked she mout sulk all 
 through de race. I neber took my eyes offen her, an' when 
 dey said 'Go!' at de fust trial, I seed her wheel an' shoot 
 erway lak er beam of sunlight, an' all at onc't my strength 
 come back an' I jumped up an' sez I: 'Thank God! I'll die 
 in ole Tennessee yit!' 
 
 "But de yudder mair was fas', an' when de rider seed 
 Gray Gamma's tactics he jes' turned her loose an' she dun 
 je's' lak she dun de colt crept up ter de filly's flank, up ter 
 her saddle, up ter her haid, an', sez I, 'Is she gwinter beat 
 er ennyhow?' 
 
 "Hit's been fifty odd year," said the old man, as he 
 looked away off in meditation, "but dat picture is branded 
 in my mind es plain terday es ef I seed it now. I ken see 
 eben how de sky an' de clouds looked, an' de outline ob dem 
 two horses as dey went nose to nose eround dat track. Hit 
 'peered lak er hour befo' dey went de mile, an' I dreaded 
 de time I knowed wus comin' when de rider ob de Missippy 
 mair wud go to his whip. He dun it at de quarter pos', an,' 
 thinks I, 'now I'm gone! Missippy will come wid her bolt!' 
 But Gord bless yore soul, honey, Gray Gamma hed er bolt, 
 too, an' when de mair tried ter go by her de boy on Gray 
 Gamma jes' leaned ober an' touch her gently lak wid de 
 spur in de flank an' she jes' grappled de frozen ground wid 
 dem corks, an' shot her naik ahead, an' I jumped up an' 
 down, an' hollered, 'Halleluyer! Halleluyer! I'll lib an' die in 
 ole Tennessee!' An' Gray Gamma? she seemed ter git bet 
 ter. She seem ter fly! It look ter me lak she neber touched
 
 Il6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 de yearth fer er quarter ob er milel I run to de wire at de 
 stump, de same stump I cried on befo', an' I jumped on it 
 lak er game rooster on er barn fense, an' I hollered till dey 
 heurd me at the quarters, two miles erway: 'Glory halleluyer 
 come home, Gray Gamma!' 
 
 "An' she cum de sweetest sight dis nigger eber seed. 
 She cum lak er bloomin' skule gal, playin' 'Puss in de cor 
 ner/ in low neck an' short sleeves, wid roses on her breast, 
 mornin' on her cheeks an* stars in her eyes, an' makin' er 
 run fur de home base! She cum lak ten camp meetin's in 
 full blast an' me jes' got religun! She cum lak whole regi 
 men's marchin' ober kittle drums an' me de drum-majah! 
 She cum lak de charriut ob de Lawd in de pillar ob fiah 
 glory halleluyer! 
 
 "Wai, sah, all I rickerlect is dat I had her 'round de 
 neck an' wus kissin' de star in her furred, an' I look an' dair 
 stood Ole Marster, sorter smilin', wid his eyes sorter moist, 
 an' Dinah tryin' to kiss his han's an' he cum an' put five 
 twenty-dollar gold pieces in my han', an' sez he: 'Stop 
 yer blubberin', yer idjut, an' go to yer cabin; you don't know 
 er race hoss ef you'd meet 'im in de road, an' de naixt time 
 you hab a moonlight race wid my hosses pick out one dat 
 will teach folks how to race ergin ole Tennessee!" 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 MY love and I sailed out to sea 
 When the dream days came with purpling sky, 
 And her laugh was the winds at play, to me, 
 And her eyes the stars I guided by. 
 Her hand touched mine, 'mid the breaker's roar, 
 And new strength came to the lagging oar 
 Her lips met mine in the tempest's blast 
 And new life flashed in the straining mast.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 117 
 
 My love and I sailed on to sea, 
 
 And life was full and sweet for me. 
 
 Till our boat plunged under a death-wave dark 
 
 And I sailed alone in a drifting barque! 
 
 Now the skies are gray, and the winds at play 
 
 Mourn drearily o'er the sea all day, 
 
 And I look in vain through the fog and rain 
 
 For the wave that will bring me to her again. 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE HEART. 
 
 D 
 
 IEEP in the dales of the human heart, 
 
 Deep in the dells of the soul, 
 Where the springs of the innermost passions start, 
 Where the brooks of Hope and Happiness part 
 
 And the flowers of life unfold, 
 Is a temple whose vespers rise and swell, 
 Yet it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 
 
 J Tis loftier far than the dome of the sky, 
 
 'Tis deeper down than the sea, 
 It catches the gleam of the stars as they fly 
 And the music they make as they wander by 
 
 With their heavenly minstrelsy, 
 Music but whence no mortal can tell 
 For it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 
 
 No glitter of tinsel, no blight of gold, 
 
 No fashion of rank and lies, 
 No creeds in their coffined urns of old, 
 Where the dust lies deep on their hearts of mold, 
 
 No altar where prides arise 
 And yet no cathedrals in beauty excel 
 Tho' it hath no priest and it hath no bell.
 
 Il8 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 And here hath the crushed and the desolate prayed 
 From the depth of their soul's despair, 
 And hither hath sad-eyed Sorrow strayed, 
 And out-cast Hope hath sobbed and laid 
 
 Her head on the altar there. 
 And never Anathema rings their knell, 
 For it hath no priest and it hath no bell! 
 
 O, glorious church of the heart divine 
 
 (O, conscience priest to us all!) 
 High o'er the world may your sweet dome shine 
 With your silent priest in this heart of mine 
 
 And the image of Love on your wall. 
 O, Church of the heart 'tis there God dwells 
 Tho' it hath no priests and it hath no bells! 
 
 TO A BLUE JAY. 
 
 OTHE world is all against you, Blue Jay, Blue Jay; 
 ^ O the world is all against you now, I say, 
 With your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 
 
 And your jay! jay! jay! 
 And your saucy, whistling wheedle 
 
 Just before you fly away 
 
 To pounce down on the juciest and the sweetest roasting ear; 
 To steal the ripest Concords in the sunshine purpling near; 
 To run off all the song-birds with your blust'ring, bragging 
 
 tongue, 
 And break the hearts of mother birds by eating up their 
 
 young 
 
 Then to perch up on the highest limb upon the apple tree 
 And call up mourners 'round you with your tweedle, tweedle, 
 twee'!
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 119 
 
 You're a robber, robber, rubber, 
 
 Blue Jay, Blue Jay, 
 And a hypocrite and bully, 
 
 As all the world doth say. 
 
 O, the world is all against you, Blue Jay, Blue Jay; 
 O, the world is all against you now, I say, 
 But your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 
 
 And your jay! jay! jay! 
 And your saucy, laughing wheedle 
 Brought again to me, to-day, 
 
 The time we stole together, in the summer long ago. 
 The cherries and the peaches and the grapes of purple glow. 
 The day we climbed the chestnut for the Yellow Hammer's 
 
 nest, 
 
 And you gave it up, disconsolate, because I robbed the best! 
 And I see the old home once again, the fig trees in the sun, 
 While a boy slips all around them with a single-barrel gun, 
 And he brings it to his shoulder as he sees a bobbing head 
 Bang! and he's a murderer for old Blue Jay is dead! 
 Was I a robber, robber, 
 
 In the summer long ago, 
 When I barbecued and ate you 
 
 With my sportsman's pride aglow? 
 
 Ah, some grown-up folks are like you, Blue Jay, Blue 
 
 Jay; 
 Ah, some grown-up folks are like you now, I say 
 
 For they tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 
 
 When they wish to have their way, 
 And they wheedle, wheedle, wheedle, 
 
 In their tricks of trade to-day, 
 
 And they pounce upon their fellow man and steal his very 
 best
 
 120 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 His eggs of reputation, and his cherries happiness, 
 
 And you'll find their crops distended with the plunder they 
 
 have won, 
 While their tongues are shooting slander (ah, 'tis worse than 
 
 any gun), 
 And they thrive and fill and t'atten till they go to get their 
 
 due 
 
 In another world Oh, Blue Jay, won't they make a barbecue? 
 Then sing away your robber song 
 
 Of jay! jay! jay! 
 
 Till some robber mortal comes along 
 And sees himself to-day. 
 
 YESTERDAY. 
 
 THE old man tottered out to the pasture. He was eighty 
 years old. 
 
 "How difficult it is for me to walk now," he said, as he 
 shuffled unsteadily along, "and how it tires me to go but to 
 the pasture gate! And where," he said, as he turned his whole 
 body feebly around to look at an object behind as old age is 
 wont to do when the muscles have become stiffened in the 
 neck "and where are the blue hills I used to see over there 
 where the clouds and the sunset loved to linger, and the gray 
 mists rose from the valleys like the breath of day to the skies 
 above? Are they there yet? I cannot see them." 
 
 "They are all there, Grandpa," said the little boy who ac 
 companied him. "They reach all around and around and 
 around, and they are brown here," said he, pointing with 
 an emphatic finger, "and blue yonder, and bluer further on, 
 and, yes further still O, I can't tell whether it's clouds or 
 hills, they run together so! But, O, Grandpa, I know that 
 tree we just can see on top of that far, far away hill! That's 
 Grundy's big poplar, and I went there once and saw a wild
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 121 
 
 pigeon's nest on the first limb, and I played in the branch 
 that ran at the foot of the hill, and I brought home wild 
 grapes! O, Grandpa," gleefully, "let's run over there now and 
 see if they are all there, and have some fun! Do, Grandpa!" 
 
 The old man sighed and shuffled feebly along. 
 
 "Alas!" he said. "But yesterday I went there myself, and 
 went with my mother, and I saw the bird's nest and played 
 in the brook, and my mother was beautiful and happy. That 
 was yesterday only yesterday. To-day I feel tired. To 
 morrow I shall rest." 
 
 He reached the bars. A horse came up to the fence. He 
 was sightless, and his sunken back indicated extreme age. 
 The old man put out his hand over the bars to rub the 
 horse's nose, but the strained position made his fingers dance 
 uncertainly over the animal's face, and he drew back his 
 hand because he could not hold his arm still. 
 
 "What horse is this?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, grandpa! Don't you know Old Whip," said the 
 boy. 
 
 The old man looked hurt. "Old Whip," he repeated, 
 absently. "Old Whip. Why, yesterday, only yester 
 day, I called him Whip Young Whip. And I stood right 
 here at these bars and caught him and put your grandmother's 
 saddle on him she was forty then and handsome, and your 
 mother was five, with eyes like yours and they rode Young 
 Whip, and I rode by their side, and I laughed in my strength 
 and happiness, and we rode to the upper place and gathered 
 apples from the orchard, and picnicked in the woods and 
 rode back in the evening, and I kissed them both and lifted 
 them from the saddle and turned Whip in here only yester 
 day evening. But one night has passed but one." 
 
 The little boy looked puzzled. "Why, grandpa, mother 
 died when I was a baby. And grandma I never saw her. 
 That couldn't have been yesterday!" 
 
 "Yes, yesterday, my son yesterday because I have for-
 
 122 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 gotten all else that came between it and to-day. It was yes 
 terday yesterday, for I remember it. Yesterday, twenty- 
 five years ago! Men time things wrong, my son. Our real 
 time is from memory to memory from happiness to hap 
 piness. But let us go in. I want to kiss my wife and the 
 baby. I want to kiss them to-day, for to-morrow I shall rest 
 yes, we shall all rest." 
 
 And the little boy sadly led him in. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 OTHE mem'ry of the mistletoe that graced that Christmas 
 scene! 
 And the berries in the holly wreath like rosebuds red be 
 
 tween, 
 And the smell of fragrant cedar, even yet an evergreen. 
 
 O, the beauty of the dainty hands that twined the holly 
 
 through, 
 And the snowy neck and cheeks that made the roses blush 
 
 anew. 
 Now I never smell the cedar but I see the maiden, too. 
 
 O, the glory and the story in those eyes of tender trust! 
 Not all the world of sermons can convince me they are dust, 
 For the starlight lives forever and love's mem'ry hath no 
 rust! 
 
 Up in heaven with the angels she is twining wreaths to 
 
 night. 
 
 In her Father's many mansions 'mid the dazzling glory-light 
 She has laid aside a love-wreath for her tired one in the 
 
 fight.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 123 
 
 EULALEE. 
 
 Eulalee, sweet Eulalee, 
 
 The years have passed, but still I s^e 
 Your laughing eyes 'neath snood of red, 
 And the bending skies of blue o'erhead. 
 
 The partridge calls 'mid the dreamy corn, 
 For the night dew falls and the shades creep on, 
 And I say "good night," for the grass is wet, 
 And your last words are "I love you yet!" 
 
 Eulalee, sweet Eulalee, 
 The stars now roll 'twixt you and me, 
 But I see your snood through the milky ways, 
 And your eyes beyond the starry rays. 
 Your laughter comes with the sunbeams free 
 And the dews that fall are your tears for me. 
 And up to heaven, with hot cheeks wet, 
 I look and hear "I love you yet!" 
 
 u 
 
 MARJORIE. 
 
 P in the hills of Tennessee 
 Lives Marjorie sweet Marjorie. 
 
 There ain't a bird but stops his song 
 When down the lane she rides along- 
 Stops his singin' just to stare 
 And wonder where she got that hair 
 So deeply golden, floatin' there! 
 And why her eyes ain't baby blue 
 Instead of twilight beamin' through? 
 (For birds do know a thing or two)! 
 They know that wavy, rosy flout 
 Of sunset tress in dreamy rout
 
 124 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Should have some sky of blue about. 
 But when them eyes, full to the brim 
 Of stars and love, look up at them, 
 And daylight blush o'er cheek is spread 
 From cheeks just pulped to melon red, 
 And o'er that sweet dream face is born 
 The light that kind o' comes with morn, 
 They ketch their breaths and sing away- 
 She's turned their eve to break o' day! 
 
 Up in the hills of Tennessee 
 Lives Marjorie brave Marjorie. 
 
 Loud boomed the Harpeth, as adown 
 She rode like mad to Franklin town. 
 The Judge's daughter the county's star 
 (For years I'd worshiped her afar!) 
 "Too high in life," they whispered me, 
 "To look with favor, lad, on thee." 
 But love will climb to star itself 
 What careth it for worldly pelf? 
 The Judge was stricken to the ford, 
 A keen plum switch for stingin' goad, 
 Her saddle mare like mad she rode! . 
 Forgetting flood and angry wave 
 She spurred her father's life to save! 
 (Alas, her own she all but gave.) 
 
 Plowin' that day on the horse-shoe side, 
 I stopped when I saw her frantic ride. 
 I rushed where the tall creek willows grow- 
 Where the swirling waters roared below 
 I waved, I beckoned, shouted all 
 Were lost in the lashing water's fall! 
 I saw the mare swept from her feet,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 125 
 
 I saw an emptied saddle seat. 
 
 I plunged what cared I for the roar, 
 
 Born, as I was, on the Harpeth shore? 
 
 What to me was my burden frail, 
 
 I, who could lift a cotton bale? 
 
 Did e'er an arm that had tossed the wheat 
 
 Hold before a bundle so sweet? 
 
 But Harpeth was mad as a frenzied colt, 
 
 And shot his flood like a thunderbolt. 
 
 The big waves swept with giant scorn, 
 
 And once I thought we both were gone! 
 
 Did she know it, then, when a kiss I brushed 
 
 On cheek that e'en in the waters blushed? 
 
 Did she hear the words of love I said? 
 
 (I couldn't help it, I thought she was dead!) 
 
 Struggling, battling, I landed, but could 
 
 Not meet her eyes she understood. 
 
 "I'm safe," she said, and my hand she took, 
 
 (And gave me one, just one love look,) 
 
 "Now mount your horse, for the doctor ride; 
 
 Save my father and I'm your bride!" 
 
 Up in the hills of Tennessee 
 Lives Marjorie dear Marjorie. 
 
 You can't climb up that tall hill there 
 And look way down that valley fair, 
 But what your gaze will rest on ground 
 That's mine all mine for miles around. 
 That Jersey herd, that bunch of mares, 
 Them frisky colts with all their airs, 
 That Southdown flock in yonder dell, 
 Followin' the tinklin' wether-bell, 
 Them barns and paddocks gleaming white,
 
 126 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 That home shut in with God's own light, 
 And all them fields of wheat and corn 
 That sweep clear down to Amberhorn. 
 I earned 'em all no gamblin' tricks, 
 But hones' work and tellin' licks. 
 
 But best of all, 'twixt you and me, 
 That girl is mine my Marjorie! 
 
 A MORNING RIDE. 
 
 AWAY! away! the coming day 
 Breaks o'er the East in fans of gray, 
 And purpling high the glowing sky, 
 Blushes before the Master's eye. 
 Steady, Marie! my rein is free, 
 Canter a bit in coltish glee, 
 Your easy gallop is wine to me. 
 
 Away! away! the new-mown hay 
 
 Has scented all the valleys gay. 
 
 The cool, moist air is thick, but rare 
 
 With odor never known elsewhere. 
 
 Come, now, Marie! you change, I see, 
 To single-foot, so swift and free 
 A palace car is a cart to thee! 
 
 Away! away! no stop nor stay. 
 
 Hark! Heard you e'er such music, pray? 
 
 What melting rout now falls about 
 
 To tell the mocking-bird is out! 
 
 Come, come, Marie! I'm watching thee! 
 
 A fickle miss I fear you be 
 
 To change to running walk with me.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 Away! away! ah! primrose gay 
 
 You're dressed, I see, for the race to-day, 
 
 And in the bloom of his feath'ry plume 
 
 The elder lends you his perfume. 
 
 Then go, Marie! show them, for me, 
 How the swallow skims the crystal sea 
 The pacing queen one day you'll be! 
 
 127 
 
 THE MULE RACE AT ASHWOOD. 
 
 (The old fairs in Maury county sometimes ended in a 
 mule race, in which every effort was made by the spectators 
 to retard the progress of the steeds and make them fly the 
 track. Old Wash's account below is not exaggerated.) 
 
 TALK erbout trotters an' pacers bein' cheap," said old 
 Wash the other night, after ambling in to know if it 
 was true that Coxey's army was only a scheme to put 
 the colored man back into slavery, "but you orter seed how 
 cheap thurrerbreds got in Murry county way back in '35. 
 Bless yore soul, we bred more thurrerbred mairs to jacks 
 that year den I eber seed in my life. An' dey made de bes' 
 mule in de wurl. A Tennessee mule outen a thurrerbred mair 
 am a leetle de bes' pullin' thing dat eber was hitched to de 
 yudder end of a trace chain. Pull? Why, I've seed 'em die 
 in de traces, tryin' ter pull er waggin outen de mud. I hup 
 I may die ef I ain't seed one pull her fore shoulders down to 
 er foot of her hips. I disremember dat mule conspicuously, 
 'kase we cut part of her tail off arter dat an' sold her to a 
 circus fur a geeraffe. 
 
 "An' run! Wai, sah, you orter seed dat race at de ole 
 Ashland track one fall! Dey got up er mule race, an' ole 
 Marster tole me if I'd ride his gray mule an' win he'd let 
 me marry er gal dat belonged on ernudder plantashun, an' 
 one dat I'd bin pinin' fur fur er long time, an' ole Marster
 
 128 3ONCS AND STORIES 
 
 didn't want me ter marry her 'kase she wasn't in de fambly. 
 In dem days, sah, we fo'ks ob de fust qualerty had to be 
 migh'ty 'tickler how we marr'id outen de fam'bly. I might 
 es well add, right heah," said the old man, "that arter 
 I got 'er I quit pinin' fur 'er. I've noticed it's ginerally dat 
 way. But you wanter know how dat mule wus bred? Fust 
 dam by Bosting, secon' dam by 'Clipse, third dam by Dio- 
 meed, fourth dam by Flyin' Children, fifth dam by Barley's 
 Arabian, an' fur twenty more dat mule went on. On her 
 sire's side she traced all over Spain an' Portugal, Egypt an' 
 de Holy Land, an' clar up ter de Prince of Wale hisself. Talk 
 erbout er mule not bein' bred right! Oh, we had 'em in dem 
 days. Thurrerbreds wus sho' cheap. 
 
 "When de race cum off, I made dat mule run lak I 
 'spected to find de gal hung up at de wire. De yudder mule 
 was bred spang up, too, an' we wus sailin' erlong pritty 
 briefly yes, pritty briefly wid me er little erhead an' dead 
 sho' ob winnin'. I wus jes' wunderin' which one ob his las'- 
 year coats ole Marster would gib me ter marry in an' if Mistis 
 wouldn't bake er cake, when all at onc't my mule " 
 
 "Come, come," I said, "don't make up anything. Tell 
 it just as it was." 
 
 The old man really looked hurt as he remarked: "I see 
 you ain't fully posted on mules, 'specially thurrerbred mules. 
 Why, dey am as different frum hosses as de spirit ob a bat 
 am frum de ghost ob Ophelia. Did you eber see one run 
 erway? Now, er hoss runs erway lak a gentleman. He jes' 
 gits skeered and runs erhead. He'll run ober er court-house 
 or ennything else, but he'll jes' keep on runnin'. But you 
 jes' watch er mule run erway. De fus' thing he do is to turn 
 right roun' an' throw you out. Ef he's gwine north, and de 
 whole wurT gwine north wid him, an' he take er noshun to 
 run erway, he jes' turn roun' and run souf. Don't make no 
 diff'rence ter him whut's behind him; he's gwine back. He 
 lubs de past better'n ennything I ebber seed. He'd ruther
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 129 
 
 turn roun' and run back into Sodom an' Gomorrah dan to go 
 straight erhead into glory. Now, when er hoss runs erway 
 he's sho' to hurt hissef; it's very seldom he hurt ennything 
 but hissef an' de vehickle. He'll bus' his head, or break er 
 leg, or skin hissef up, or do sumthin'. But you jes' show me 
 er man dat eber seed er mule hurt hissef when he run erway. 
 No, sah! Hit's de folks in de vehickle he's after; and he 
 allers gits 'em. He's de same way erbout kickin'. Watch er 
 hoss kick you. He fus' lay back his years, an' switch his tail, 
 an' gib you fair warnin' ; den, if you don't git outen de way, 
 he kick you ober like a gentleman. But do er mule do dat? 
 No, sah! When he gits ready to send you to kingdom cum 
 he puts on his most fetchin' airs. You'd think kickin' de 
 las' thing he gwinter do. You needn't be oneasy when you 
 see him switch his tail an' back his years an' sorter dance up 
 and down behind; he's jes' playin' den. De time fur you to 
 pray am when you see him behavin' hissef; dat's de time when 
 he means bizness. When he looks love outen his eyes, an' 
 his years p'ints to de pure, blue sky erbove, p'intin' sinners 
 to dat better Ian', den's de time fur you to stay outen his way. 
 "Wai, sah, dat's de way de male dun. He wus jes' forty 
 feet frum de wire when de idee struck him dat he wus gwine 
 de wrong way. Dey wusn't nuthin' dair to skeer him nuthin' 
 but er straight track. 'Twas part of de program fur 'em to 
 try an' skeer him all de way, an' de boys hed stationed er cin- 
 nerman bear an' er Italian at de fus' quarter, thinkin' dey'd 
 sho' bolt an' cum back. Now, er mule hates de smell of a 
 bear like he do de thought of respecterbility, but he went on 
 by 'em like he neber seed 'em. At de haf de boys had turned 
 a cobered wagon ober 'nuff to skeer a saddle an* blanket 
 but my mule went on wid his tail up no skeer dair! At de 
 three-quarters dey turned sum firecrackers loose, an' thinks 
 I, he'll sho' bolt now; but dey both went on jes' like dey bin 
 fed on firecrackers all dair life. At de distance flag de brass 
 band got in de middle ob de track an' turned loose all dair
 
 130 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 horns an' drums playin' 'Run, Nigger, Run de Patterole 
 Ketch Ye' nuff to turn back de debil hissef but my mule 
 run ober de fellow wid de kittle drum, stepped on de drum 
 head an' carried it erlong pierced wid his lef hin' leg; but 
 jes' as dey got to thirty feet of de wire, wid ebery thing 
 clear, an' it look like if dey tried to stop eben dey'd slide 
 under, dey both conkluded dey wus gwine de wrong way, 
 and both of 'em whirled. But I was 'termined not to get beat 
 an' dey said both of us me an' de yuther rider left de sad 
 dle 'bout de same time an' sailed through de air like er pair 
 of turkey buzzards on er windy day. I went under de wire 
 fus* and landed on de hard groun' on my head an' mouth, 
 fur which I wus mighty thankful, fur if I'd landed on my feet 
 I'd er broke my legs sho'. I got up an' ole Marster cum up 
 laffin' an' said: 'Wash, de gal's yourn, you beat de yudder 
 nigger by er lip a close shave but you went under de wire 
 fus'. You've got de bes' head fur er race I eber seed,' he 
 said as he felt my head to see if it was busted. An' ernudder 
 man laughed an' said when he looked at my mouth, all 
 swelled up: 'Hardly er lip, Colonel, fur ef he had, he'd er 
 left de yudder nigger at de las' quarter!' 
 "But I got de gal!" 
 
 WHEN DE FAT AM ON DE POSSUM. 
 
 ODE glory ob de fall days, de bes' ob all de year, 
 Wid de smoke a curlin' up'ard in de mornin' crisp an' 
 clear 
 When de days cum brimmin' ober wid de soft an' meller 
 
 light, 
 
 An' pollertics an' 'ligyum both ergwine day an' night! 
 O I don want no better times den dese my life to fill. 
 When de fat am on de possum an' de taters in de hill!
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 131 
 
 O de glory ob de fall days O de splendor ob de morn 
 When de hills an' valleys echo wid de hunter's tuneful horn, 
 When de yaller gal braid up her ha'r an' sets out in de sun. 
 An' de fat shoat in de beechwood snort an' whirl eroun' an' 
 
 run! 
 You may talk erbout yer Promused Ian' I've got it at my 
 
 wish 
 When de brown am on de possum an' de taters in de dish! 
 
 Sum say dis am a wicked wurl an' full ob sin an' shame, 
 Dat frenship's but er holler soun' an' love am but er name, 
 Dat all de men am liars yit an' all de women false, 
 Wid death an' taxes allers heah to make us rise and waltz. 
 Dat mebbe so one t'ing I kno' it nebber seems to be 
 When de taters in de possum an' de possum am in me! 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 O CLOUDS, ye are ships in the infinite blue 
 ^ Of the ocean of heaven and ye sail, 
 
 And ye sail 
 To the harbor-gate, open to welcome you through 
 
 In the west. To the harbor-gate, pale 
 As a moon-ray reflected from the sea 
 To your sail. 
 
 O, clouds, ye are ships, and above you the dome 
 Of an infinite heaven and ye float, 
 
 And ye float 
 To the beacon-star burning to welcome you home 
 
 To your rest. And lovers will gloat 
 O'er eyes that are blue and wet as the waves 
 Where ye float.
 
 , 32 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 LITTLE SAM. 
 
 LO, de cabin's empty, 
 De chilluns all am gchn, 
 De jimsun weed gro' 'roun' de do', 
 
 De grass dun tuck de cohn, 
 De fiah am turned to ashes, 
 
 De hoe-cake's col' an' clam; 
 I wants ter go to de Master now 
 He tuck po' little Sam. 
 
 Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 
 Dat wake me in de mohnin' when de chickens 'gin ter cro', 
 De Marster's royal cherriut cum down wid steeds ob flame, 
 He had ten million angels but he wanted mine de same. 
 
 His coffin wus er ole pine box, 
 
 (Po' little lonesome waif!) 
 Whut matter whar de col' clay am, 
 
 Jes' so de soul am safe. 
 I gethered cotton blossums, 
 
 'Twus all de flowers I had 
 Lak him, gohn in de mohnin' 
 
 Befo' de dew wus shed. 
 
 Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 
 
 No more I'll heah him call me when de chickens 'gin to 
 
 crow', 
 
 De Marster's royal cherriut cum down wid steeds ob flame, 
 He had ten million angels but he wanted mine de same. 
 
 Lo, my heart am empty, 
 
 My life hopes dey am fled, 
 Jes' cut dis ole dry tree down, Lord, 
 
 De moss am on its head
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 133 
 
 Why should de ole man sorrow heah 
 
 Sence you tuk little Sam? 
 Jes' let me be thy servant, Lord, 
 
 In de manshun whar he am! 
 
 Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 
 
 Sum mohn' I'll heah him call me when de chicken 'gin to cro', 
 
 An' den de Marster's cherriut will take me es I am, 
 
 Will take dis po' ole nigger home, to be wid little Sam. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 HOW like a second nature to our souls 
 Is immortality. 'Tis not of earth, 
 But comes a ray from heaven, that unfolds 
 The budding instinct of another birth. 
 
 Who from the void can make a man but God? 
 
 And if God make him, shall He then ordain 
 That, having breathed upon the senseless clod, 
 
 Back to the void shall turn His work again? 
 Through endless time no more nor yet no less 
 
 Than making man for woe and wretchedness? 
 
 Away the thought! The deathless Deed that springs 
 From out its dust-encumbered home of clay, 
 
 And, like a beam of morning, folds its wings 
 Only 'mid the twilight of a perfect day 
 
 This cannot die! 'Tis part of God himself, 
 A heart-throb of Infinity! 
 
 The Thought that spans the arch of silent stars, 
 Scaling the rugged battlements, where rise
 
 134 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 The roof above time's own grim prison bars 
 Searching beneath the shadows of eternal skies 
 
 For captive Truth this cannot die! 'Tis God's own child 
 Exiled to earth, now seeking home again! 
 
 THE TENNESSEE GIRL AND THE PACING MARE. 
 
 THE Tennessee girl and the pacing mare are a pair I 
 can never separate in my thoughts. When I think of 
 the one I see the other, and when I see the other I think 
 of the one. They go together much better than Jonathan and 
 David, or Damon and Pythias; and they travel along life's 
 road with a great deal less friction than either would go 
 with a male companion. They are a pair of females entirely 
 bent on femininity. 
 
 The bottom may drop out of the universe; political par 
 ties may rise and fall; hades may boil out of Mount Vesuvius, 
 and horses of the male persuasion may burst the records 
 of the world, but the Tennessee girl and the old mare are 
 only bent on preserving the chastity of the female race as 
 they shuffle along down a sunshiny pike to carry a hank 
 oi yarn and a brace of spring chickens to another pair of 
 the same gender living about three miles further on. 
 
 The girl is demure, modest and sweet. The old mare is 
 demure, modest and fleet. The girl is shyer than a sixteen- 
 year-old Nymph clad in a petticoat of sea foam, before the 
 mirror of the Olympian gods. The old mare is more timid 
 than a fawn in a herd of buffalo. The Seventh Regiment 
 Band, in full regalia, could not march by the damsel with 
 enough eclat to make her peep out from under her sun- 
 bonnet long enough to see the color of their uniforms; and 
 forty thousand of them could not make the old mare look 
 around unless their martial music happened to stampede the
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 135 
 
 shuffling sorrel offspring ambling behind her then she'd 
 ride over the regiment to get to it. So would the girl. 
 
 But the sorrel offspring does not really belong in this 
 duo. He is looked on as a necessary evil which is liable to 
 happen in the early spring days of April or May. When 
 the hazy gleam settles over the landscape in the twinkling 
 glow of Autumn's aftermath, he goes out of their life and 
 existence. Perhaps he has grown too large; perhaps too 
 saucy perhaps too much of a man to be allowed the com 
 panionship of this pair who worship at the shrine of Vesta 
 and yet live in the hope of one day making it uncomfortable 
 for a male man and his unregenerate offspring when cleaning- 
 up day comes round! In the fall, then, the colt will be 
 missing. But the girl rides on and says nothing; while the 
 old mare merely paces along in a gradually increasing ratio 
 of avoirdupois till the next spring. Then you may meet a trio 
 again. 
 
 The Tennessee girl is a born rider. No silk hat with 
 half a white goose-feather adorns her shapely head. No 
 long riding skirt streams under her horse's flanks, or flut 
 ters out behind to frighten the steeds of unsuspecting passers- 
 by. No gloves that reach to her elbows. No silver-mounted 
 English whip that abruptly stops in its make-up about the 
 place you think the whip ought to begin no goggle glasses, 
 hair in a Psyche knot, and look a la hauteur no; that isn't 
 the Tennessee girl on the old mare; that's the city girl that's 
 riding for fun. The girl we are talking about never got on 
 a horse for fun in her life. 
 
 A snow-white sun-bonnet with a few stray curls peeping 
 out from under. It is tied with a double-bow knot under the 
 chin and two streamers play in the wind behind. A blue 
 calico skirt comes down nearly far enough to hide a pretty 
 foot that's got a good hold on a solid steel stirrup. Where 
 is the other foot, you ask? Come, don't be too inquisitive. 
 The Tennessee girl has two; the other, with its necessary
 
 136 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 attachment, has got a grip on the pommel of the saddle 
 and a Comanche princess can't stick there tighter. A pair 
 of woolen mittens cover chubby hands that know how to 
 hold bridle reins and there she goes, one hundred and forty- 
 five pounds of solid "gal" in a saddle her great grandmother 
 rode over "from North Callina in." 
 
 The Tennessee girl is the best female rider ah! beg 
 your pardon, equestrienne they call it now in the world. 
 And yet nobody ever saw such riding! She rolls in the 
 saddle with every motion of the old mare. She is the most 
 unstable-looking thing in the saddle, to be as solid as she is, 
 I ever saw. She sits her horse like a forty-ton flatboat on 
 th- roll of a wave, and yet she goes ahead like a graceful 
 y.ioht in mid-ocean on the crest of a billow. She will fool 
 you to death. It is painful for a tenderfoot to behold her ride. 
 His first thought will be to rush up and save her from falling 
 off; his second to stand and see her fall a mishap no one has 
 ever yet seen, not unless the double girth broke. Down the 
 pike she goes while the spectator is waiting to pick her up 
 following every curve and rolling with every roll of the 
 pacing mare, all the time in unison, toppling but never 
 falling, swaying but never breaking, easy, jolly, joyous, for 
 getful, unthinking, unaffected; she can ride out of a storm 
 like Diana, pace home in a curve-line of beauty, or gallop 
 with her brother over the field like a princess of the Monte- 
 mmas. 
 
 And don't you discount on the old pacing mare. As 
 sleepy as she looks and as unconcerned and all that, she is 
 the deadest gamest thing under heaven! She carries the blood 
 of the desert the memory of fifty Derbys in her veins! 
 She is the same the world over, and would jus 1 : as soon throw 
 spceu amid the sand hills of Sahara as among the roses of 
 Andalusia. She'll bring race mules if bred to a jack, throw 
 "B B" bread-winners if mated with mustangs, and give us 
 world-beating Pointers when bred to her equal. She car-
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 137 
 
 ries the girls to church like a three-year-old, takes the old 
 lady to meetin' like a forty-year-old, carries the old man on 
 a nightly fox hunt like Tarn O'Shanter's "Meg" with a witch 
 at her tail, and yet brings him home, when he gets drunk, 
 at daylight, as slowly and solemnly as the burial of Sir John 
 Moore. She will kill a dozen mules in a plow, would make a 
 sway-back elephant ashamed of himself when she backs her 
 ears and throws herself in the collar of a stalled wagon, and 
 on general principles will pull anything she is hitched to, 
 from a log wagon to a sucker's leg, and in her friskier moods 
 will throw anything from a race horse to a horse racel 
 
 She eats less, works more, lives longer, says less, than 
 any animal under the sun, and springs more unexpected 
 speed from unexpected places than a dozen jack rabbits in a 
 sedge field! She is homely in her old-fashioned ways, yet 
 glorious in her grit! Leggy in her angularity, yet beautiful 
 in her strength. Solemn in her Scotch-Irish honesty, yet 
 brilliantly humorous when she takes the bit and tries to pace 
 a 2:10 clip in her old age. Modest and gentle as a nun's 
 dream of her first love, yet as fiery and aggressive as a hel- 
 meted knight in an honor quarrel. Homely she may be, plain, 
 painfully plain, and yet to me, when I know what is slum 
 bering there, she is 
 
 Moulded as trim as a gatling gun, 
 And full to the brim of its fire! 
 
 Nothing can stop the Tennessee girl and the old mare. 
 Nature, recognizing their claims, keeps the sun shining, the 
 sweet birds singing, the winds playing and the brooks danc 
 ing when the precious pair start down the pike. Even the 
 toll-gates brazen evidences of corporations and cruel ob 
 structionists of freedom and unrestrained progress fail to 
 stop them. 
 
 "Your toll, please," said the gate-keeper, as a pair of 
 them came to a halt, recently, when the gate swung up. 
 
 "But do we have to pay toll?" asked the fair rider, with
 
 138 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 a look so full of pretty injured innocence as to make the 
 hard-hearted collector inwardly swear he would never col 
 lect another toll as long as he lived. 
 
 "Certainly, Miss; five cents, if you please; here are the 
 regulations" 
 
 A carriage and horses .............. 250. 
 
 A wagon and team ................. i5c. 
 
 A buggy and horse ................ xoc. 
 
 A man and horse .................. 5c. 
 
 "A man and a horse! Why, we are a gal and a mare," 
 said the Tennessee girl, as she rode on through, after cast 
 ing a withering look on the abject keeper, who was trying to 
 skulk off and hang himself. 
 
 LETTIE. 
 
 LETTIE she lives in Orchard Room, 
 An' the Square he lives near by. 
 Orchard Room is a world of bloom, 
 
 An' Lettie she's its sky! 
 A valley of blossoms an' rose-perfume, 
 An' Lettie's the rose O, my! 
 
 Her cheeks, she stole frum the peaches 
 Thet dimples an' pinks in the sun, 
 
 Her lips, frum the cherries; her eyes blackberries; 
 Her laugh, frum the brooks thet run. 
 
 Her soul! an angel drapt it onc't 
 'Bout the time her life begun. 
 
 The Square hed saunt his message, 
 
 An' hit created a stir! 
 He was "gwine ter marry Lettie 
 
 Or else know the reason fur"
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 139 
 
 Rich, an' he'd buried fo' good wives 
 Now he wanted to bury her! 
 
 I stopped Old Kate in the furrer; 
 
 I mounted an' rode erway, 
 I b'leeves in sowin' to-morrer 
 
 When I kno' I can reap to-day, 
 An' trouble I never will borrer 
 
 When I orter be makin' hay! 
 
 Down by the spring she was churnin' 
 
 Her kalico tucked to her knees, 
 Her cheeks all flushed an' a burnin', 
 
 Her hair flung out to the breeze. 
 I looked an' I felt my heart turnin' 
 
 To butter an' then ergin inter cheese! 
 
 I rode to the fence beside her, 
 
 My heart went flippetty-flop, 
 'T was churnin' up champagne cider 
 
 An' sody an' ginger pop! 
 Old Kate hed nuthin' ter guide her 
 
 An' she nacherly cum to er stop. 
 
 "O, Lettie," I said, "my darlin', 
 
 Will you marry the old, fat Square? 
 
 His heart hit's es cold as his gizzard 
 His soul hit's es scarce es his hair! 
 
 O, Lettie, sweet, why would the wild fawn 
 Mate with the polar bear?" 
 
 She ducked her head (it was takin'), 
 
 "O, Lettie, my heart you'll bust! 
 Will you really marry that bac'n?" 
 
 "Yes," slyly "Zeke, 'spec I must!"
 
 140 
 
 SONCS AND STORIES 
 
 "O, Lettie, my darlin', why will ye?" 
 
 "Cause cause you didn't ax me fust! 
 
 I grabbed her there an' I kissed her, 
 
 Kissed her over the fence, 
 An' I got me a preacher, Mister 
 
 An' the Square ain't seed her sence! 
 Fur he's up at his house, in the attic, 
 
 An' they say he's a raisin' a stir 
 A-nussin' his gout an' rheumatic 
 
 While I'm wal, I'm a-nussin' her! 
 
 LIFE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 THE faint, sweet light breaks over the hills, 
 To waken the chords of memory's bells 
 And bring us Christmas morning. 
 O, Christmas morning, fresh and clear, 
 Is this your token of a glad New Year? 
 Is this your emblem of a good new cheer 
 To come with your hallowed dawning? 
 
 The glad east glows with resplendent beam 
 And wakens from sleep a childhood's dream 
 
 Of a Christmas gone forever. 
 O, childhood's Christmas, now no more, 
 Come from the sheen of that evergreen shore! 
 Come with your faith and your hope of yore 
 
 Come with your honest endeavor. 
 
 The bold, bright sun mounts up to his throne 
 With eagle speed through the paling zone, 
 
 And manhood's Christmas hangs o'er us. 
 O, manhood's Christmas, bold and strong,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 Give us your boldness to battle the wrong, 
 Give us your power the fight to prolong 
 Shine in your glory before us. 
 
 The pale west glows with a purpling light, 
 That rolls in serried columns bright, 
 
 Where the day king's banners rally. 
 But now 'tis gone, and night is nigh; 
 O, then may our good deeds glitter on high, 
 And our past pure thoughts bespangle our sky 
 
 To light our way through the valley. 
 
 ! 4 I 
 
 "DICK." 
 
 HIS real name was Richard Augustus Washington La 
 Fayette that was all. He ought to have had a sur 
 name, but he didn't, for he was just a little darkey belonging 
 to Major Richard Augustus Robinson, one o* tne aristo 
 crats of Middle Tennessee, thirty odd years ago and who 
 counted his negroes as he did his flocks on a hundred hills. 
 According to custom, Dick's surname should have been 
 Robinson Richard Augustus Washington La Fayette Rob 
 inson only nobody had taken time to think of it, and Dick 
 was too little to think for himself. 
 
 "And as for hunting up names for my negroes," remarked 
 the Major on several occasions, "it's as much as I can do to 
 name my colts and register my Shorthorns." 
 
 But Richard Augustus was all right. His "mammy" had 
 a literary turn of mind, and when Dick was a year old she 
 named him for her master, Washington and La Fayette 
 "the three greates' men dat eber libbed" as she herself de 
 clared; and then, having duly notified her world at the 
 "quarters," she promptly forgot all about Dick and his name,
 
 I 4 2 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 too, in the more interesting event of declaring a pair of divi 
 dends twin dividends, as it were for the Robinson plan 
 tation. These required two more names a mental task too 
 much even for a person of her well-known intellectuality, 
 and so, unfortunately for Richard Augustus Washington La 
 Fayette, in the mental disgust that followed, she boiled down 
 the three greatest men in history into Dick. 
 
 And Richard was himself on all occasions. With him 
 life was one perpetual Sunday, even after he grew big enough 
 to leave "old Granny," the wrinkled and wizardly witch of 
 an octogenarian whose duty it was to take care of the two 
 score pickaninnies of various ages, "at the quarters," while 
 their mothers helped out in the crops. And what glorious 
 fun Dick had, picking little baskets of cotton by day, for 
 work, hunting possums by night, and breaking the colts on 
 Sunday for religious diversion 1 Chittlings, crackling-bread, 
 hoe-cake, 'simmon beer and bacon! These were his till there 
 was one endless cackle in his laugh, one continual ring of 
 grease around the hole in his face, one everlasting brewery 
 in his heart. He ate so much, so often and so systemat 
 ically, that his cocoanut-protruding forehead was as polished 
 as a black ivory ball, and the small spot of ebony abdomen 
 that stuck out through the slit in his one garment a hickory 
 shirt that came down to his heels looked not unlike the 
 crown of a Stetson derby greased with bear's grease. 
 
 Freedom! Not much of it did Dick want. In fact, I 
 think, like the rest of his race, Dick missed the idea alto 
 gether as a great many people nowadays have missed it. 
 Dick never had studied on the subject much, but somehow 
 or other, way down in his little philosophical heart, he had 
 learned that slaves are sometimes free, while ireemen are 
 often slaves. 
 
 Ah, Dick, there are more slaves to-day than on the day 
 I first saw you, thirty-three years ago, as you rode the bay 
 filly down the long lane while the twilight shadows pirouetted
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 143 
 
 the cows you were driving home into colossal oxen. 
 Yes, a lot more. It is true they don't go by that name, 
 Dick; but O, Dick, names are not even surface indicators 
 in this world. There are so many slaves in the world to-day, 
 Dick, that sometimes I hope we will find the north pole and 
 start a new republic, not alone for the poor white and the 
 poor black slaves now in the world, those who have to pinch 
 and starve and toil and turn the grindstone of destiny as 
 you and yours never had it to do, Dick, but also as a place 
 where every voluntary slave to passion and avarice, sin and 
 shame, might enter, and, by God's help, get another start in 
 life. For 
 
 O, the tyranny of the master, Poverty, 
 And O, the whip of the master, Sin, 
 
 And O, the hounds of Squalor and Misery, 
 And O, the driver that drives them in! 
 
 They say that not even our greatest scholars of to-day 
 could talk in Latin or Greek, were they placed back two 
 thousand years ago in Rome or Athens. And they say it is 
 because our thoughts do not come into our minds the same 
 way that they do not originate in the same manner, and 
 hence cannot be expressed in similar construction as those of 
 the dead languages. The germ-cell of the thought, so to 
 speak, has been lost. And so it was with Dick. Freedom could 
 not enter his mind because there was no brain cell there for 
 it, and none in his ancestors before him. That for which 
 the Saxon would die was lacking in Dick. Happy Dick! 
 He was like a blackbird born in a cage! 
 
 But if Dick didn't have his freedom bump developed 
 there was one he did have, and that was love. Dick loved 
 everybody, but he loved "Ole Marster" best of all. Before 
 he could walk well, he used to watch the tall, gray-haired 
 Major dismount from his big, stocking-legged chestnut horse
 
 I44 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 when he came in from riding over the farm, and as he would 
 stalk by Dick and stop to playfully crack his riding whip 
 at him, instead of running away in half-feigned terror and 
 grinning at the stately joker as the other darkies did, Dick 
 would crawl up to him like a frousy spaniel and with his 
 long monkey fingers he would pick the cockle-burs and beg- 
 ger lice from his master's leggins, and do it all with the air 
 of a dog when its owner deigns to rub its back with his foot. 
 
 As he grew older Dick was taken by tht Major "to the 
 big house" to wait on him. Then indeed was Dick's cup full. 
 
 But one day Dick's cup was fuller. It ran over. At one 
 bound he leaped into fame, and, what was better for Dick 
 his master's heart. And this is the way it happened: 
 
 Major Robinson was a noted horseman. He owned, as 
 was thought, the best in the land. His neighbor, Col. Sellers, 
 was also a noted horseman, and the Colonel was quite posi 
 tive that his were the best in the land. The pride of each 
 one's heart was a magnificent saddle stallion and two 
 grander horses, in truth, could not be found in a day's ride. 
 Each could pace like a pickerel and go as many saddle gaits 
 as a rocking chair on a steamboat deck. In looks well, 
 ha.i Rosa Bonheur seen them, there would have been two 
 more of her famous pictures in the Royal Gallery. The 
 Major's horse was a splendid chestnut, as perfect as a Tenny- 
 sonian poem, full of thoroughbred blood from nose to heel, 
 and known as Traveler. The Colonel's was a beautiful bay, 
 as rounded as one of Johnson's periods, equally as well bred 
 as Traveler, and known as Pilgrim. 
 
 In those days questions of superiority in saddle horses 
 were decided in the show ring. Only thoroughbreds raced. 
 With the saddler it was looks and gaits. With the thorough 
 bred, speed. 
 
 But Dick changed all that. Bright Dick! 
 
 These two famous horses naturally met, time and again, 
 in the show ring; and, being so nearly matched in breeding
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 145 
 
 and gaits, sometimes Traveler would be awarded first prize, 
 and then it would fall to Pilgrim. Year after year did this 
 go on, throughout the fairs of middle Tennessee, until finally 
 it became merely a question of who were the judges, as to 
 which would win. At first the thing was humorous, but it 
 soon became excitingly serious; for as everybody in Tennes 
 see, where a horse is involved, will take sides one way or the 
 other, soon all the country were Travelers or Pilgrims. 
 Small wonder they could not keep still! Tennessee has al 
 ways been a battle ground for something. Before the white 
 man's foot touched its soil it was the battle ground of the 
 Indians, the hunting ground of the nations. Jackson made 
 it lor forty years the battle ground of national politics, and 
 Fort Donelson, Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Mis 
 sion Ridge, Franklin and Nashville, these, alas, have made it 
 the battle ground of death! 
 
 They love, indeed, a battle ground of some kind. Politics 
 suits them best; if this fails, they are delighted to battle it 
 out among the churches; and if both fail look out for a 
 horse race! 
 
 And so it was in this instance both politics and relig 
 ion were relegated to the background. People no longer 
 weie Whigs and Democrats; they were Robinsonites and 
 Sellerites. and instead of Baptists and Methodists they be 
 came Travelers and Pilgrims. Old fellows who had been 
 at political outs all their lives got gloriously fraternal on a 
 platform that declared the Traveler horse to be the best 
 horse under the sun. while old ladies who all their lives 
 had slandered each other "for the love of God." became as 
 twin doves in the Pilgrim creed. From these it went to poli 
 tics, until the county elections were fought out on that issue. 
 Then, indeed, did things become serious families became 
 separated, lovers parted forever, husbands and wives were 
 divorced on the subject of which was the better horse! In 
 the first election the Travelers captured the sheriff and coun-
 
 I+ 6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 ty clerk they had the military strength, but the Pilgrims 
 held the coffers, for they elected the trustee and the tax 
 assessor. A revolution threatened to disrupt the social fab 
 ric of the county and bloody war was imminent when Dick 
 the little wizard philosopher settled the entire thing to his 
 own everlasting honor and the dignity of the state. 
 
 How he came to think of it, I do not know. But ons 
 day that fall when things were at a crisis, when Traveler 
 had beaten Pilgrim in the show ring for the fortieth time 
 to the Pilgrim horse's thirty-ninth as against Traveler, when 
 young men were fighting duels on the subject and old men 
 were calling each other names, Dick sat out in front of 
 Traveler's stall combing his own head with a curry comb, as 
 was customary with his race. Now, I do not know for certain, 
 but I have always believed it was the curry comb that put 
 the idea into Dick's head, because I have often noticed that 
 when people want very earnestly to think of something, they 
 always scratch their heads. It follows as a necessary con 
 clusion that if there is any virtue in the scratching at all, it 
 would also follow that the harder the heads were scratched 
 the brighter would be the thought result. Now Dick was 
 combing away with all his might, for the kinks stuck out 
 definantly over his head, and all will admit that the idea 
 evolved was simply brilliant. Hence the theorem, as the 
 geometries say. 
 
 "Marster, does you kno' Traveler kin pace mighty fast?'' 
 asked Dick as Major Robinson came out to see to the feed 
 ing of his horse. 
 
 The Major smiled. "Of course I do, Dick. Why?" 
 
 "But does you kno' he kin pace mighty briefly mighty 
 briefly," repeated Dick, earnestly. 
 
 "You know I do," said the Major; "but how did you 
 find it out? Have you been pacing this horse to water?" 
 asked his master, a trifle sternly.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 147 
 
 "No, sah!" said Dick, in a tone of deeply grieved inno 
 cence. And then he laughed. 
 
 "But marster, ef you'd axed me ef I'd bin pacin' 'im 
 frum water, I'd hafter tell you de truth. Fur tuther day 
 I rid 'im down to de crick, an' when er thunderstorm cum 
 up I had to run home er git wet. I tried to make 'im run, 
 but he wouldn't, he jes' paced lak er flyin' Kildee an' he beat 
 the shower by a good length. Wa'n't dat pacin' frum water?" 
 and Dick grinned again. 
 
 The Major had to laugh, too. 
 
 "Marster," said Dick solemnly, '"peers to me dis way 
 ob showin' hosses in de ring ain't no way to tell which am 
 de bes'. Enny fat hoss kin get er prize, but it takes grit to 
 win er race, an' de hoss dat ought to hab de prize am de hoss 
 dat kin go dat's got de win' an' de lira' an' de bottom an' 
 de head to stay dar. Dat's de hoss wuff sumpin', ain't it?" 
 
 The Major smiled. "Yes, Dick, but why?" 
 
 Dick jumped up with intense earnestness in every feat 
 ure. "Marster, Marster," he shouted, "'jes' challenge de 
 Pilgrim folks fur er pacin' race! Make it fo' miles dat'll 
 settle it, an' " lowering his voice to a confidential whisper 
 "you kno' Trabler's got de blood to stay!" 
 
 The Major caught at the idea in a moment. Up to that 
 time pacing races were practically unheard of in the state. 
 The idea was novel, and, certainly, as Dick said, would "set 
 tle it." Without a word he turned on his heels, went to his 
 library and promptly challenged the owner of Pilgrim to a 
 four-mile pacing race for a purse of five thousand dollars. 
 The challenge was as promptly accepted by Colonel Sellers, 
 and Dick? poor little Dick I claim for him here the honor 
 of being the originator of pacing races in Tennessee! 
 
 It is needless to say the county was out to see that race. 
 The boy who rode Pilgrim was nearly grown and quite 
 strong, while Dick was but ten years old and a midget at 
 that. When they came out on the track for the word Trav-
 
 148 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 eler was so keen to go and so powerful withal, that, by 
 merely fighting half restlessly the bit, he jerked Dick about 
 the saddle as a cork on a billow. 
 
 "Marster," said Dick, as he rode up to where Major 
 Robinson stood, "I ain't 'feered of but one thing. Won't 
 you do me a favor?" 
 
 "What is it, Dick?" asked the Major, as he caught the 
 strong horse by the bit to see what the boy wanted. 
 
 "I'm 'feered I can't hoi' 'im down," said Dick, "I'm so 
 light. Won't you let 'em tie me in de saddle?" 
 
 The Major shook his head. "No, no, Dick," he said. 
 "That would be cruel and treating you unfairly. The horse 
 might run away, or fall, and I had rather lose the race than 
 see you hurt. Do the best you can as it is." 
 
 "An' I'd ruther die than lose de race, Marster," said 
 Dick, determinedly. "Tie me in, an' ef ennything happens 
 I won't blame you." 
 
 The Major reluctantly yielded to the boy's entreaties. 
 A strong girth was passed over Dick's hips as he sat in the 
 saddle and tightly buckled around the horse; the word was 
 soon given and they were away. 
 
 The horses paced like a team, both riders holding them 
 down for fear they would break. At the first mile they 
 ha'' become thoroughly warmed to the work and were steady 
 enough to be given their heads more freely. At the second 
 mile Dick led by a length, and at the third he had gotten 
 still swifter and, owing to a break of Pilgrim, he was ten 
 good lengths ahead and his horse moving like machinery. 
 But here the unexpected happened. Dick was too light for 
 the powerful animal. Scarcely had he passed the third mile 
 gcing at a terrific speed, when Traveler, taking the bit in his 
 teeth, and having insufficient weight at the reins, pulled Dick, 
 saddle and all, slightly forward, and then, to the horror of all, 
 the saddle turned, and the boy and saddle were seen dangling 
 under the powerful horse's belly, while his flying feet appeared
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 149 
 
 likely at any moment to end Dick's life and race at the same 
 time. And to a larger rider tied as Dick was, such would 
 have been the result. But not so with wiry little Dick; his 
 presence of mind did not forsake him. He grasped the sur 
 cingle band which ran around the horse's neck with both 
 hands, dug his sharp heels into Traveler's flanks and stuck 
 there closer than a flying squirrel under an oak limb! 
 
 And the crowd, when they saw the act and the fact 
 that the gallant horse never broke his gait, cheered itself 
 hoarse. But in an instant it stopped Traveler, riderless, 
 had slackened his speed Pilgrim came up and passed him; 
 while Traveler, bewildered, mechanically followed several 
 lengths behind. It was all up for the Major! 
 
 But not so. Dick quietly waited in his perilous posi 
 tion till he turned into the stretch, and then the crowd went 
 wild again for Dick, reckless Dick, turned loose his whip 
 hand, gathered a firmer grip with his left, swung out his keen 
 rawhide and made Traveler think a hundred hornets had 
 settled on him. It was a horse race from there to the 
 wire, but Traveler had the speed and went under a half 
 length ahead. 
 
 No wonder a hundred men seized his bridle and cut Dick 
 loose from his perilous position. No wonder the Major 
 himself picked him up for joy, and, while he declared ten 
 thousand dollars could not buy him, henceforth he was free! 
 
 i 
 II. 
 
 Such was Dick as I knew him, thirty-three years ago. 
 Given his freedom, he refused to leave his master and Trav 
 eler, but hung around the place, caring for the horses and 
 cows, and enjoying all the affections and privileges of a 
 shepherd dog. Every morning he would mount the bay filly 
 and drive the cows to the blue grass pasture. Every evening 
 he would drive them home. I can see him now, as he would
 
 150 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 ride down the long lane in the twilight. How I used to envy 
 him! his jolly good nature, his graceful seat on the restive 
 filly, the beautiful way he had of popping his long whip, and, 
 best of all, the wonderful music in his wild halloo, sounding 
 like a bugle call: 
 
 "Time's up, time's up, 
 Children an'-ah, 
 Children an'-ah, 
 Les' go h-o-m-e!" 
 
 I don't think anyone living could sing that as Dick 
 did. I did not know then where he got it, but the war soon 
 taught me. It was "Lights Out," and I wish I could put 
 down the music too, so my readers could tell exactly how 
 Dick would roll it out. But to make it complete, I would 
 also have to put down the twilight, the song of the wind in 
 the trees, the chirp of the redbird as he went to roost, and 
 the glow of the sunset in the western sky. 
 
 Home is the most perfect word in our language. It fits 
 the mouth better, fills the lungs fuller, and rolls out purer 
 and sweeter and better than any word in the English lan 
 guage. And how Dick could make it roll! It would start from 
 his mouth and rise and fall and swell above the treetops, 
 and float over the low hills and then come back in an echo 
 cf subdued sweetness when it struck the higher hills beyond. 
 As Dick sang it there was a whole orchestra in that one 
 word and more; it was an organ, a sermon and a prayer. 
 And he had caught the tune from a bugler for Tennessee 
 was full of Bragg's and Rosecran's soldiers at this time 
 out the words, Dick, I suppose, had made them himself. A 
 queer combination! Apollo's harp twanged with Mar's bow 
 strings but it was music. 
 
 Suddenly Dick pulled up the filly with a jerk. He list 
 ened and heard firing over toward Murfreesboro. Dick
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 151 
 
 knew what it meant. It was Tuesday evening, December 30, 
 the evening before the battle of Stone River. Dick popped 
 his whip vigorously. Then he gravely shook his head: 
 
 "Sumbody gwinter git hurt ober dar ef dey don't behave 
 deysefs. Dem's our men doin' dat shootin'. Dat's ole 
 Biagg's bark. Look out, Rosy!" 
 
 He rode on a piece in silence. The firing grew sharper. 
 
 "What's dese Yankees wanter cum down heah an' take 
 oui niggers 'way from us fur enny way? Whut we dun to 
 dem? All we ax 'em to do is to let us erlor;," and he gal 
 loped out to head off a heifer. 
 
 Where Dick got the sentiments he expressed I cannot 
 say; but I do know that Dick was no exception to his race. 
 Darky like, he was for his home and his white people first, 
 though the freedom of all his race lay on the other side. 
 And Dick, like every other negro, knew it, too, though they 
 worked on and said nothing. 
 
 Some day there is going to be a great monument put 
 up in the South by southern people. And on its top is going 
 to be a negro not the mythical slave with chains on him and 
 terror in his face, which fool artists, who never saw a negro 
 slave, and fool poets, who never heard one laugh, are wont 
 to depict but the jolly, contented, rollicking rascal that we 
 knew and loved; the member of our household and sharer 
 of our joys and sorrows. On its top, I say, there is going 
 to be that kind of a negro, as he was, and he is going to 
 be represented in the act of picking cotton, with a laugh, 
 while he refuses with scorn a gun with which to fight his 
 master for his own freedom. When that is done, it will be 
 the crowning monument of the age. 
 
 But in Dick's case it was still more remarkable, for 
 Major Robinson was what was called in Tennessee at that 
 time "a Union man." He was one of that very numerous 
 class in Tennessee who voted as he said Andrew Jackson 
 would vote against secession. Even after the Gulf states se-
 
 152 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 ceded, these voted against secession and carried the state by 
 a large majority, in a test of that question. Afterward, when 
 federal troops invaded the state, the tide turned, and Ten 
 nessee seceded. But Major Robinson, while he refused to 
 secede, also refused to fight his own people. Avowedly for 
 the Union, he took no part in the war. 
 
 Dick rode on home rather seriously I thought, for I 
 again heard his bugle call: 
 
 "Time's up, time's up, 
 Children an'-ah, 
 Children an'-ah, 
 Les' go h-o-m-e!" 
 
 But if Dick thought the evening skirmish was going to 
 hurt somebody if they didn't behave, he had no doubt at 
 all the next morning. For just at daylight, as he expressed 
 it, "hell sut'n'ly broke loose at Muffersburrer" Rosecrans 
 with forty-three thousand men had advanced from Nashville 
 to strike Bragg on Stone River, and utterly crush him But 
 Bragg had a similar intention and struck first, at daylight, on 
 the last day of December, 1862. And Dick had it right; gen 
 ius is genius, and Dick and a great Union general both used 
 the same expression in speaking of that battle. 
 
 All day long Dick heard the boom, boom, boom of 
 guns. For all day long Cleburne and Hardee, Polk and 
 Cheatham, Withers and McCown executed one continual 
 charging left wheel and rolled Rosecran's right wing back, 
 bark, back, for four long miles, until the federal lines were 
 dcubled up on each other at right angles, like a big bird 
 with a broken wing. As wounded men were brought to the 
 rear, and filled up the farm houses and yards, Dick heard 
 them say that Bragg had crushed Rosecrans. that the federal 
 general was cut to pieces, that Shiloh was avenged. 
 
 But the next day Dick heard no more guns, and he
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 153 
 
 learned that Rosecrans had gotten between the river and 
 the railroad embankment, and was going to fight there for 
 life, madder than a gored bull. All that day Dick waited to 
 see what was going to happen. 
 
 The next day it happened. For Bragg tried to double 
 up the other wing. Then there was another day of boom, 
 boom, boom, until the wounded were so many and the dead 
 s<, thick that Dick actually got used to dead men and de 
 clared that he would never again be afraid to go through a 
 graveyard "fur whut is a grabeyard where dey am under 
 groun' an' you can't see 'em/' he said, "to a grabeyard on 
 top de yearth whar you can't walk for steppin' on "em." 
 
 But the wing wouldn't double up. And on the third 
 day Bragg quit and marched away. Dick afterward learned 
 that Rosecrans was about to march back to Nashville him- 
 sell if Bragg hadn't been in such a hurry, and that moved 
 the wise little Dick, in great disgust, to exclaim: "Bragg 
 am a good dog, but Holdfas' am better!" 
 
 Bright Dick; that was what Rosecrans himself said. 
 
 About a week after the battle Dick went out one even 
 ing to feed Traveler for the night. To his surprise an officer 
 in a blue uniform was standing in the stable door, and going 
 into exaggerated praise of the beautiful animal, which a 
 soldier held by the bit for his inspection. 
 
 "Put 'im back, gem'men," shouted Dick, as he rushed 
 up excitedly, "put 'im back! Dat's Trabler; ole marster 
 don't 'low nobody to handle 'im but me!" 
 
 The officer laughed. "He looks like a pretty good 
 Traveler," he said, "and that's what I want with him." 
 
 "But you can't git dat hoss, sah," expostulated Dick. 
 "He ain't fur sale." 
 
 "We don't want to buy him," said the soldier who was 
 holding the bit. "In war time we take what we want." 
 
 Dick waited to hear no more. He vanished. In a few 
 minutes he came back with Major Robinson.
 
 154 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 The Major was astounded. He expostulated; the soldiers 
 were determined. He explained his position, offered them 
 other horses, and demanded protection: It was no avail. 
 Then the Major grew commanding and ordered them back. 
 The officer lost his temper and foolishly drew his revolver. 
 Foolishly, I say, for to a man of Major Robinson's ideas of 
 life and death and honor, he simply invited a tragedy and 
 it came. The Major was an old duelist, dead game and a 
 deader shot, and before Dick recovered his senses, he 
 heard five or six shots follow each other, some in and some 
 out of the stable door. 
 
 When the smoke died away, an officer lay dead, a soldier 
 dying, and Dick was holding Traveler's bit with one hand, 
 the stirrup with the other, and begging his master to fly. 
 
 "Go! Marster, go!" he begged. "Don't you heah de 
 udder soldiers cumin'? Dey will kill you ef dey ketch you 
 heah; but dey'll never ketch you on dis hoss." 
 
 The Major hesitated: "You saw them, Dick," he said, 
 half sorrowfully. "They were stealing my horse, and drew 
 to kill me. No, I'll not run for defending my property and 
 my life." 
 
 A sound of galloping hoofs came up the pike. A squad 
 of federal cavalry dashed in the front gate. Dick thrust his 
 master's foot in the stirrup and half pushed him in the sad 
 dle. The Major was convinced he had better flee, at least 
 until he could come back and be sure of an impartial trial, 
 and as Dick turned loose the bit he gave the spirited animal 
 a blow which made him bound away through a side gate: 
 "Take care of your mistress, Dick," was all the Major could 
 call back before he was gone. 
 
 Dick picked up the pistol his master had thrown down. 
 A squad of soldiers rushed around the house to the stable. 
 They took in the scene at a glance. 
 
 "Who did this?" shouted one to Dick. 
 
 Dick listened. He could still hear Traveler's feet up the
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 155 
 
 pike. His master might yet be headed off and captured if 
 he answered. 
 
 "Who did this?" thundered the soldiers again, while 
 several of them cocked their pieces. 
 
 Dick listened again. He could still hear the horse's 
 feet. An idea flashed into his mind. It meant death to him, 
 he knew, but what cared Dick if it saved "Ole Marster?" 
 
 He turned his head slowly and looked the soldiers in 
 the eye. 
 
 And the eyes that looked so calmly into the muzzles of 
 their guns were no longer those of a little negro slave they 
 were twin stars that lit the lamps of Heaven, while the Re 
 cording Angel wrote something grand opposite Dick's poor 
 little slave name. 
 
 "Heah's whut dun it," he said, as he held the pistol, still 
 warm, out "dey wus stealin' marster's hoss, an' I" 
 
 A volley followed instantly. 
 
 "I guess we've got the imp," said a soldier grimly as he 
 watched the motionless figure now lying in the stall door 
 between the two blue uniforms. 
 
 But suddenly the pinched figure rose on its elbows and 
 listened. The sound of flying hoofs could no longer be heard; 
 a smile of exquisite satisfaction stole over the grimy face, 
 and definatly there came back: 
 
 "Yes, you got me. But you'll nuvver git Ole Marster 
 on dat hoss!" 
 
 And then, as consciousness forsook him and the dark 
 closed 'round, he must have thought it was twilight and that 
 he was on the bay filly driving the cows home, for the sol 
 diers heard, low and soft as their own bugle notes 
 "Time's up, time's up, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Les' go h-o-m-e!" 
 
 And Dick's light was out.
 
 156 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 O WEET is the grace of beauty, and it holds 
 O The imprisoned earth within its radiant folds. 
 It steals upon us like the rosy hue 
 Of morning's blush, and while the sweet cool dew 
 Moistens and freshens the dead grass of our hope, 
 It bursts like love-stars on our horoscope. 
 Like Dian's locks, her flashing charms deter 
 Yet make the light by which we worship her. 
 The eyes of children, flute notes of a bird, 
 Flowers that 'round them beading dewdrops gird, 
 Skies of blue and gold at wedding morn, 
 Lips that touch when sweet young love is born, 
 These strew her pathway, Iris-crowned they rise 
 When beauty's sun lights up life's 'wakening skies. 
 
 THOROUGHBREDS. 
 (An incident of the fight around Atlanta.) 
 
 QTRAIGHT at the breast-works, flanked with fire, 
 O Where the angry rifles spat their ire, 
 And the reeling cannon rocked with flame, 
 Swift as his name-sake, Bullet came. 
 Young was his rider, fifteen and two, 
 And yet the battles that he'd been through 
 Were fifteen and ten a braver lad 
 Old Fighting Forrest never had! 
 
 And as he rode down the rifled wind 
 His brown curls bannered the breeze behind. 
 "O, they are mother's," he had laughed and said 
 When the men nicknamed him "Trundle Bed" 
 Two years before (when he first ran away
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 157 
 
 From mother and school to don the gray). 
 "But that's all right" with a toss of his head 
 "For Bullet is grown and he's thoroughbred!" 
 
 But that was before the Shiloh fight 
 
 Where he led the charge 'gainst Prentiss' right. 
 
 And as he came through the smoke and flame 
 
 Old Forrest himself was heard to exclaim: 
 
 "Just look at Bullet and Trundle Bed! 
 
 I tell you, boys, they're both thoroughbred!" 
 
 And from that day on it became a law, 
 
 "Follow Bullet and you'll go to war!" 
 
 To-day he rode less erect, I ween, 
 
 For he'd had a battle with Gen. Gangrene 
 
 In the hospital tent (a ball in his chest 
 
 For riding too far over Kenesaw's crest). 
 
 But even while tossing with fever and pain 
 
 He had caught a whiff of battle again, 
 
 Just smelt it afloat in the sulphurous air, 
 
 And he knew, somehow, that Forrest was there 
 
 And hard pressed, too so, 'twixt crutches and crawl, 
 
 That night he slipped out to Bullet's stall. 
 
 A whinnying welcome a kiss on his ear, 
 
 "I'm alive yet, Bullet Trundle Bed's here!" 
 
 A pattering gallop at first daylight, 
 
 The boom of a gun on Johnson's right 
 
 "That's Cleburne, Bullet! What a charming fight!" 
 
 Straight at the sheeted and leaden rain 
 
 He rode Alas! not back again! 
 
 For the hot fire scorched the curls of brown, 
 
 And grape shot mowed their owner down, 
 
 And the heart that beat for mother and home 
 
 Was dumb where it wept and wet the loam.
 
 IS 8 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 And dim in the dust the blue eyes fine 
 But Bullet charged over the Yankee line. 
 
 Charged over the line! then he missed the touch 
 
 Of the rider that loved him over much, 
 
 And he wheeled as the gray lines rose and fell 
 
 'Neath fire like fire from the pits of hell, 
 
 And he rushed again on a backward track 
 
 When he saw the Texas brigade fall back. 
 
 But whose was the form that caught his eye 
 
 With boots to the guns and face to the sky? 
 
 And whose was the voice? "Tell mother good-bye!'' 
 
 And why were the curls red? His were brown 
 
 He stopped as if a shot had brought him down! 
 
 Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, 
 
 And steel cursed steel yet he stood before 
 
 The form he loved; for he knew the eyes 
 
 Though their June had changed to December skies. 
 
 Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, 
 
 And steel cursed steel yet he whinnied o'er 
 
 The form he loved, while the grapeshot tore! 
 
 And still he stood o'er the curly head 
 
 For Bullet, you know, was thoroughbred 
 
 Till a solid shot plowed a cruel rent, 
 
 A last loving whinny and Bullet was spent! 
 
 The burying squad in blue next day 
 Stopped to a man as they wiped away 
 A tear for there all calm 'mid the wreck 
 Was Trundle Bed pillowed on Bullet's neck! 
 
 O Union great, O Union strong, 
 
 The South, you say, was in the wrong, 
 
 And yet, some day, when the foe shall come,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. ! 5 
 
 Some day at the beat of an insolent drum, 
 When the glorious Stars and Stripes unfurl'd 
 Shall stand for Home in Freedom's world, 
 The first their blood in the cause to shed 
 Will be the sons of the thoroughbred! 
 
 ****** 
 
 "WEARING THE GRAY." 
 (A Memorial day poem for the Confederacy.) 
 
 WEARING the gray, wearing the gray, 
 Battling alone in the world of to-day, 
 Fighting for bread in the battle of life, 
 With courage as grand as they rode to the strife. 
 Marching to beat of Toil's merciless drum, 
 Longing for comrades who never shall come, 
 Comrades who sleep where they fell in the fray- 
 Dead but immortal in jackets of gray. 
 
 Wearing the gray in the silvery hair, 
 Mortality's banner that Time planted there! 
 Wearing a gray, while the tears upward start, 
 A gray that is buried down deep in the heart. 
 
 Wearing the gray, wearing the gray, 
 
 The old line marches in mem'ry to-day 
 
 The old drums beat and the old flags wave 
 
 How the dead gray-jackets spring up from the grave! 
 
 They rush on with Pickett where young gods would yield, 
 
 They sweep with Forrest the shell-harrowed field, 
 
 They laugh at the bolts from the batteries hurled, 
 
 Yet weep around Lee when the last flag is furled.
 
 X 6o SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Wearing the gray o'er the temples of white, 
 Time's banner of truce for the end of the fight. 
 Wearing a gray that was worn long ago, 
 With their face to the front and their front to the foe. 
 
 Wearing the gray, wearing the gray, 
 
 Longing to bivouac over the way, 
 
 To rest o'er the river in the shade of the trees, 
 
 And furl the old flag to eternity's breeze. 
 
 To camp by the stream on that evergreen shore, 
 
 And meet with the boys who have gone on before. 
 
 To stand at inspection 'mid pillars of light, 
 
 While God turns the gray into robings of white. 
 
 Wearing the gray o'er the foreheads of snow 
 The drum beat is quick, but the paces are slow 
 Wearing a gray for the land of the blest, 
 When life's fight is o'er and the rebel shall rest. 
 
 Wearing the gray, wearing the gray, 
 Almost in the valley, almost in the spray, 
 Waiting for taps when the light shall go out, 
 Yet hoping to wake with a reveille shout! 
 Leaving to Heaven the Right and the Wrong, 
 Praying for strength in the old battle song 
 Praying for strength in the last ditch to stay, 
 When death turns his guns on the old head of gray. 
 
 Wearing the gray in the paleness of death, 
 For the angel has swept with a garnering breath! 
 Wearing a gray when he wakes in the morn 
 The old rebel jacket our dead boy had on!
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. X 6i 
 
 THE BELLS OF ATLANTA. 
 (An incident of the Civil War.) 
 
 AUTUMN sunset on Atlanta painting banners red of 
 Mars 
 
 Twinkling campfires in the distance like ten thousand evening 
 stars. 
 
 For the foe had come upon her in the glory of his might, 
 
 And his siege guns, like grim war dogs, waited for the mor 
 row's fight. 
 
 Down the valley in the moonlight lay the Gateway of the 
 South, 
 
 Fruitful as a summer grain field when the east wind breaks 
 the drought 
 
 Proud as harem queen, and heedless sleeping 'neath the 
 cannon's mouth. 
 
 Sabbath sunrise on Atlanta, issuing in the steel-gray morn, 
 Turning dark hills into silver as the crystal light is born. 
 Wakes the beaming sky in beauty, sleeps the somber earth 
 
 in shade 
 
 Only reveille and roll-call mock the peace that God has made! 
 And the siege guns ceased their dreaming ceased their 
 
 dreaming of the fray, 
 Turned their horrid fronts to eastward, where the quiet city 
 
 lay 
 For the word had come from masters they must open on 
 
 their prey! 
 
 Far away through blue-domed morning rose the city's thread 
 like spires, 
 
 Lifting up the southern banner to her heaven-kindling fires; 
 
 And the foemen, seeing, wondered knew they fought no bat 
 tle wraith 
 
 For the finger of her worship was the flag-staff of her faith !
 
 162 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Ay, they knew that in that banner, fluttering there without a 
 
 flaw, 
 
 Slept the nerve of Chickamauga and the heart of Kennesaw 
 Slumbered southern hope and glory, her religion and her law. 
 
 "Aim for yonder cursed banner flouting from that tallest 
 spire; 
 
 Open with the hundred-pounders let the batteries follow 
 fire!" 
 
 Thus spake Sherman, and his army, marshalled in the hill 
 top sun, 
 
 Waited there in painful silence for the music of that gun. 
 
 And those siege guns, huge, black-muzzled, show their de 
 mon, ghoulish lips, 
 
 As they raise their necks to measure where the blue horizon 
 dips 
 
 Where to spring across the valley when their leash the keeper 
 slips. 
 
 In a moment on the city there would rain a fire of hell; 
 
 Solid shot would mingle thunder with the shriek of shrapnel 
 shell! 
 
 Like an eagle from his eyrie falling on the flock below, 
 
 Death would scream across the valley lighted by the fuse's 
 glow. 
 
 Then the sergeant grasps the lanyard, while erect the gunners 
 stand, 
 
 As they wait in dumb obedience for the Colonel's stern com 
 mand 
 
 For the word unloosing thunder on this heaven-basking land. 
 
 Suddenly, far down the valley, came a faint yet tuneful sound, 
 Floating from the tallest steeple, spreading like God's halo 
 
 'round. 
 And the sergeant dropped the lanyard as that sweet wave rose 
 
 and fell,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE, ^3 
 
 And the bristling ranks saluted for they heard their own 
 church bell: 
 
 Softly, sweetly, rising, falling, 
 
 Hark! 'tis thus the paean ran 
 Gently chiding, calmly calling: 
 
 "Peace on earth, good will to man!" 
 
 Heralding to pale blue morning 
 
 Till the echoing hilltops start 
 Shell and shot and cannon scorning: 
 
 "Love thy God with all thy heart!" 
 
 Out it pours, full heaven-throated, 
 
 Caring naught for glory's pelf, 
 Chiming, as it upward floated: 
 
 "Love thy neighbor as thyself!" 
 
 God's own skylark of His spirit! sweeter than the songs of 
 
 war, 
 
 Grander than the bass of battle when the cannon boom afar 
 Mightier than the thunder-organs on the decks of Trafalgar! 
 
 And the soldier as he listened saw New England's hilltops 
 rise 
 
 Saw the plains of Indiana stretch beneath his misty eyes. 
 
 Vanished now the flags of battle, gone were armed host and 
 gun, 
 
 And his own sweet native village lay before him in the sun. 
 
 It is Sabbath, and the church bells call him now to worship 
 God; 
 
 Sabbath there yet here he standeth, ready with the chasten 
 ing rod, 
 
 Till a brother's blood shall mingle with his own, his southern 
 sod.
 
 !6 4 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 'Tis enough the flags are lowered and the blue-steel guns 
 
 they stack 
 God has broken ranks where cannon never yet hath turned 
 
 them back. 
 All day long the rebel banner, flirting while the winds 
 
 caressed, 
 Mocked the guns that, parked to westward, crowned the hill 
 
 tops bristling crest. 
 All day long the Sabbath sunlight o'er the peaceful city 
 
 spread, 
 Blending blue and gray battalions in the soft clouds over 
 
 head 
 And the siege guns watched and wondered why their keepers 
 
 all had fled! 
 
 Ring, ye church bells of Atlanta! Ring till sin and hate shall 
 
 cease! 
 Ring, till nations hear thy paeans, and the founts of love 
 
 release, 
 And the notes of drums are drowned out in thy melodies of 
 
 peace. 
 
 THE JULIET OF THE GRASSES. 
 
 1AM almost afraid to tell you people how beautiful the world 
 is down here now, for fear you will not believe it. If I 
 had lived in the age of the Aryan fire worshipers, or the 
 Chaldean star worshipers, or the Greek and Roman wind 
 and sun and cloud and hero worshipers, I would not have 
 worshiped any of these things; but, in ignorance of the true 
 God, I think I would have knelt down and kissed the grass. 
 Blue grass comes nearer to God than anything in the world. 
 The sun is too bright and the stars are too far off and the 
 wind and clouds too uncertain and intangible; but grass,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 165 
 
 sweet blue-grass is with us, and soothes the eye as far as we 
 can see, and rests the heart and the brain, and says, as plain 
 as language can say it: "Look at me, for I am a type of im 
 mortality." It is so natural and yet so grand, so heart-stir 
 ring and yet so soothing, so simple and yet so beautiful. 
 
 There are only two things in the world that hurt me 
 worse than to see little children suffer: one is to see 
 some ruthless fool plow up a grass lot; the other is to see the 
 same person cut down a tree. I almost hate the man that will 
 wantonly do these things. 
 
 For the tree seems to me to be endowed with a 
 personality and a soul. Some, I know, are bright and joy 
 ous, and love to live and would consort with their kind; while 
 others are sad and lonely and take life hard. And the grass 
 well it is a mighty myriad army of little green peoples who 
 love to grow and frolic and look pretty and do good. You 
 may not know it, but they are! 
 
 O, we have just begun to live in this world. We are in 
 our very infancy a lot of thick-headed, bad-tempered, selfish 
 little apes who think we know it all and that we are great and 
 wise and are living like God intended us to live. But if we 
 could only look ahead and see what the true race is going 
 to be a million years hence! We will be less than the Cliff 
 Dwellers to them. They will have stepped along to infinite 
 heights over generations of progress, and do you know what 
 I believe the great characteristic of the perfect man will be? 
 He will recognize life wherever he sees it in stone, in tree, 
 in grass, bird, animal and man. All things will be alive to 
 him, and he will respect every poor little life that lives and 
 the rights of every little insignificant thing which we Ape- 
 men now crush beneath our feet. And he will love every 
 thing that God has made, and will lie down with the grass, 
 and will kiss the flowers as he would children, and will lean 
 on the tree for support as he would a strong brother. And as 
 for taking a human life, or thinking an evil thought, it will 
 have been bred out of him long ago!
 
 166 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 I would not like to live in a country where the blue grass 
 did not grow. Somehow or other I have begun to as 
 sociate it with the idea of Divine good will that God has sent 
 it as a special sign of His favor and esteem, and that those 
 unfortunate countries where it does not grow, while not ex 
 actly under the ban of His displeasure, yet do they stand in 
 a kind of Esau, as compared to Jacob, relationship with Him. 
 For that reason I dislike to see it plowed up, and when I see 
 the cold steel going through its shimmering sod, and turning 
 the long, black furrows up where heaven's own carpet lay be 
 fore, I feel as if it is burying a thousand little fairy friends 
 I knew and loved. 
 
 Perhaps another reason for my love of it is that intuitive 
 knowledge that tells me, when I see it in abundance, deep and 
 rich in the valleys and changing to brighter tint on the swell 
 ing hillsides, that there will I see the race-horse in the glory 
 of his strength and the pride of his ancestry; there will I find 
 the gentle Jersey and the splendid Shorthorn, and the flocks 
 of sheep, startled, perhaps, at our approach, and moving like 
 a white billow across a sea of green and emerald. To me, 
 then, it has come to represent the banner of the live-stock in 
 dustry; the soul of speed; the coloring that gives the butter 
 its hue, and the ariel spirit that rollicks in the contented cud 
 of the Southdown and the Shorthorn. I would like to live 
 always above it, but since I cannot do that, I would rather 
 at last sleep beneath it than under some pile of clammy stones, 
 that will one day topple over to let the lizards know how dead 
 my memory is. 
 
 There is a good deal of pagan in our natures yet, else 
 why are we so quick to personate material objects? Almost 
 involuntarily do we ascribe a gender to the inanimate things 
 around us. Sometimes I think some of the rules of our gram- 
 mer might as well be changed, and, like the Latins, let us call 
 all things strong and mighty, masculine, and those weak and 
 delicate, feminine. This would also give me a chance to place
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 167 
 
 blue grass where in my dreams it has ever been the Juliet 
 of the grasses. 
 
 The first to burst from the earth under the warming rays 
 of the early spring sun, full grown before her colder natured 
 sisters are out of their short frocks, she is a thing of joy and 
 beauty, of impassioned fruition, voluptuous loveliness and 
 romantic impulses. In love with nature and herself, she wan 
 ders by the early April brooks and rejoices in the first songs 
 of the meadow lark; a true philanthropist, in her tenderness 
 of heart she feeds from her bountiful apron the early lambs, 
 and slips a sly blade or two into the mouth of the newborn 
 colt, as with dry humor he makes a ridiculous attempt to go 
 through the first evolutions of the gait his nature demands. 
 A true little housewife, she begins at once to put her room 
 to rights, and lo! in a few days she covers her valley floors 
 with the softest of Brussels, and decorates the hillside walls 
 with her own favorite color, covering even the bare rocks 
 and framing them with an artist's hand. All nature is in love 
 with her. The sun sends his sunbeam children to play with 
 her and there they will be found, the warmest and rosiest; here 
 the birds congregate to sing their merriest songs, and she 
 passes in and out among the flocks and herds, their comforter 
 and lovely shepherdess. 
 
 Her stoutly built Quaker sisters, the Timothies, come 
 along apace, attend strictly to their own business, accomplish 
 their purpose and vanish. That prolific wench, the Red 
 Clover, flounting out like the cook in her Sunday clothes, 
 decked with many colored ribbons and smelling of rank per 
 fume, raises her yellow and brown children and goes into 
 winter quarters. Those old Scotch maids, the Orchard 
 Grasses, come along after awhile, suspicious and wary, un 
 sociable and full of cranks and whims, and only satisfied when 
 off in knots and clans to themselves. Of course they are 
 afraid of the cold, and the first cool breeze that comes from 
 the north sends them after their winter flannels, and they 
 vanish. In sharp contrast to them are the Red Tops, a lot
 
 1 68 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 of pretty flirts who flaunt their red petticoats in the face of 
 decent people and cut their wild capers till arrested by the 
 mowing blade and raked in for safe keeping. A few wild 
 ones come here and there, but, like the banana-fed maids of 
 the mild islands, their rotundity is unsubstantial, and their 
 days are as short as their one garment of clothing. Even the 
 crimson clovers rise up in serried ranks, lift their bloody 
 spears to heaven, fight their battles and pass away. 
 
 But what about the little Juliet? She, too, blooms and 
 fades, and for awhile it looks as if she will go the way of the 
 others. Nothing but her fiery will and unconquered nerve 
 sustains her. Shorn of her locks, demure and gentle, she 
 fades under the hot sun. 
 
 "But death's pale flag has not advanced there," for lo! 
 the gentle rains of the fall come, and with it the glow of her 
 maiden beauty. Her pulse beats fast again; she delights in 
 the whirr of the partridge, the flight of the wild geese, and the 
 flocks of the black birds. The lambs are grown now, but 
 come in again for her care and attention, as also the eager 
 cattle and the stately mares. And so, like a resurrected dream 
 of spring, she makes glorious the death of the year, sings 
 the swan-song of autumn, and hangs her garlands of im 
 mortality on the very snow king's brow. At last she sleeps 
 a bit but just a little nap to wake again in the morning of 
 the year, a blessing, a poem, a picture. 
 
 SUNSET ON THE TENNESSEE. 
 
 HE valley rolls to the river 
 
 And the river is tinged with fire 
 As the beams of the sunset quiver 
 
 Like the strings of a golden lyre. 
 And the hills, like sentinels olden, 
 
 In burnished steel they glow,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 While a kiss from the sunset, golden, 
 They toss to the valley below. 
 
 The valley rolls to the river, 
 
 But the cheek of the river is wan, 
 Like the lips of a maid, when the giver 
 
 Of the kiss in the twilight is gone. 
 But the sentinel hills are bolder; 
 
 Like giants in gloom they grow, 
 And with forest of guns at the shoulder, 
 
 They guard the valley below. 
 
 WHERE THE GLORY LIES. 
 
 THERE is beauty in the hill-tops clad in summer's richest 
 green, 
 There is beauty in the sparkling brook that winds its way 
 
 between, 
 
 There is beauty in the swelling earth and in the arching blue, 
 But the glory of all beauty lies in friendship, strong and true. 
 
 There is grandeur in the mountain with its turrets in the skies, 
 There is grandeur in the ocean when the mighty billows rise, 
 There is grandeur in the storm-king, stalking with destruc 
 
 tion's wraith, 
 But the glory of all grandeur lies in simple childhood faith. 
 
 There is glory in the patriot's sword, that flashes from its 
 
 sheath, 
 There is glory in the warrior's brow, where rests the victor's 
 
 wreath, 
 There is glory in the statesman's pen and in the nation's 
 
 might, 
 But the glory of all glories lies in doing what is right.
 
 170 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 SAM DAVIS. 
 
 (The martyrdom of Sam Davis is not equaled in the an 
 nals of war. A confederate scout, he was sent, by Gen. Bragg, 
 into the Union lines for valuable information. Securing 
 this, much of it from a Federal officer at Nashville, he was 
 returning when captured near Pulaski, Tenn., by the Seventh 
 Kansas Cavalry. He was court-martialed and condemned 
 to be hanged as a spy, but Gen. G. M. Dodge, the Federal 
 general in command, pitying his youth and nobility of de 
 meanor, offered him his life if he would give the name of 
 the traitor who had given him the information. This Davis 
 refused to do, though Gen. Dodge made repeated efforts to 
 induce him to change his mind even offering him his free 
 dom, upon those conditions, after he was on the gallows. 
 Davis refused, saying: "If I had a thousand lives, I would 
 give them all before I would betray my friends or the con 
 fidence of my informer.") 
 
 TELL me his name and you are free," 
 The General said, while from the tree 
 The grim rope dangled threat'ningly. 
 
 The birds ceased singing happy birds, 
 That sang of home and mother-words. 
 The sunshine kissed his cheek dear sun, 
 It loves a life that's just begun! 
 The very breezes held their breath 
 To watch the fight 'twixt life and death. 
 And O, how calm and sweet and free 
 Smiled back the hills of Tennessee! 
 Smiled back the hills, as if to say, 
 "O, save your life for us to-day!" 
 
 "Tell me his name and you are free," 
 The General said, "and I shall see
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 171 
 
 You safe within the rebel line 
 I'd love to save such life as thine." 
 
 A tear gleamed down the ranks of blue 
 
 (The bayonets were tipped with dew.) 
 
 Across the rugged cheek of war 
 
 God's angels rolled a teary star. 
 
 The boy looked up 'twas this they heard: 
 
 "And would you have me break my word?" 
 
 A tear stood in the General's eye: 
 "My boy, I hate to see thee die 
 Give me the traitor's name and fly!" 
 
 Young Davis smiled, as calm and free 
 As he who walked on Galilee: 
 "Had I a thousand lives to live, 
 Had I a thousand lives to give, 
 I'd lose them nay, I'd gladly die 
 Before I'd live one life, a lie!" 
 He turned for not a soldier stirred 
 "Your duty, men I gave my word." 
 
 The hills smiled back a farewell smile, 
 The breeze sobbed o'er his hair awhile, 
 The birds broke out in sad refrain, 
 The sunbeams kissed his cheek again 
 Then, gathering up their blazing bars, 
 They shook his name among the stars. 
 
 O, stars, that now his brothers are, 
 
 O, sun, his sire in truth and light, 
 Go, tell the list'ning worlds afar 
 
 Of him who died for truth and right! 
 For martyr of all martyrs he 
 Who dies to save an enemy!
 
 !72 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 OUR BOB. 
 
 (Introducing Gov. Robt. L. Taylor, in his famous lecture, 
 "The Fiddle and the Bow.") 
 
 WITH humor as sweet as our Basin 
 When the clover bloom gathers the dew, 
 And pathos as deep as our valley 
 
 When the clouds shut the stars from our view, 
 With wisdom as rich and as fertile 
 
 As our plains when they first feel the plow, 
 And wit like the tapestry frostwork 
 
 That hangs on the Great Smokey's brow, 
 With grand thoughts as strong as our mountains 
 
 And tender ones sweetly that flow, 
 Like the music that steals o'er our senses 
 
 At his touch of "The Fiddle and Bow," 
 The bee that hath sucked every blossom 
 
 Each Tennessee flower to rob 
 And stored up the rich, golden honey 
 
 In a genius that's our's Our Bob! 
 
 NORA. 
 
 NQRA came out of the big farm gate and strolled 
 over where the glad wild roses grew by the fence 
 and hung, cornelian wreathed, on walls of green. And her 
 own face rivaled the roses and her eyes were brighter than 
 the thrush's that sat, half-startled, in her rose leaf home in 
 the hedge. And her hair hung down in golden plaits, like 
 the last two rays of sunset on the twilighted west. 
 
 Nora was ever beautiful; but this evening she was di 
 vine because she had tasted the divinity of love. 
 
 And Nora knew she was in love. She knew it because 
 she was truthful and true and she told the truth to all peo-
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 173 
 
 pie; but to herself she was truer yet and dared not even to 
 deceive herself in so small a thing as a false wish. 
 
 "For false wishes," she said, "are false children, and 
 they grow up to scoff and scorn the parent heart that idly 
 made them." 
 
 And Nora knew she was in love, because life now was 
 so different from what it was before. Besides, were not all 
 other things in love? The roses did they not bloom each 
 morning with the love-light in their eyes? Had not the 
 thrushes mated and gone to housekeeping? Life it was so 
 different now. The wind, it never blew, but frolicked; the 
 rain, 'twas but the clouds sprinkling the grass and the 
 flowers. Her household duties were not tasks, but pleas 
 ures, and the night never came now only the stars to wink 
 at her in silent happiness and bless her in their sweet, breath 
 ing light! 
 
 Nora knew she was in love. 
 
 "How grand a thing it is to be in love," she caught her 
 self saying to her heart, and blushed at the thought of the 
 thought. And then, to hide her sweet embarrassment, she 
 plucked two yearning roses and fancifully she held one up 
 to each cheek to wed their crimson cousins there. "How 
 grand it is! How it lifts one up above the common things, 
 to the sweet region of that other world where each bright 
 star is hope, and every crescent moon hangs over the har 
 vest field of love! Oh, love, love, to change me in so short 
 a while! The school girl to the maiden the maiden to to 
 to his angel" she laughed and stammered "for has he not 
 himself a thousand times told me? O," she said aloud, with 
 a little surprised gesture, as if she had just thought of 
 something wonderful, something no one had ever thought 
 of before, "O, if being in love makes one so different, so 
 well satisfied with life and glad to be alive, why did not 
 God make us in love first and keep us ever so?" 
 
 "He did me," said a voice behind her, and the roses on
 
 174 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 the hedge were pale compared with those that rushed to 
 Nora's cheeks. 
 
 "How could you, Tom?" the girl laughed as she pelted 
 him with roses. "How silly of me to talk out loud!" she 
 added. 
 
 "How could I love you?" he asked seriously not notic 
 ing that she was trying to turn his question into fun. 
 "Don't ask me, Nora God must answer that. I thought 
 you asked why God did not make us in love at first and 
 keep us ever so, and I told you that he did at least me," 
 and Tom looked straight into her honest eyes. 
 
 But Nora's eyes were no longer laughing. They were 
 very serious and solemn. Her face, too, had lost its play 
 ful smile as quickly as it had its scarlet, and now it was 
 white whiter than any of the white roses. There was 
 something in Tom's voice and look that Nora had never 
 seen before a manliness, a strength, an independence. He 
 was passive and quiet, but Nora saw he was stronger 
 now than he was the day he tossed the hay the highest on 
 the rick, for fun and a wager, and more resolved and more 
 powerful than when he seized and held the rearing, stub 
 born, untamed colt. 
 
 "O, Tom!" she said, as she saw for the first time that 
 Tom loved her. "I" 
 
 "Listen, Nora," said Tom, quietly. "Have I not always 
 loved you? Way back when we toddled together neighbor 
 farmers' children school days every day all day all the 
 time now? If love is happiness, then am I a god. If it is 
 wealth, then I am rich indeed. For it I am thankful thank 
 ful that I have known you thankful that I loved you love 
 you now and always will. Although I know,' he said, with 
 out moving his eye from her face, "that you will soon wed 
 another " 
 
 The red roses came again. "O, Tom, please don't " 
 half deprecatingly, half sorrowfully.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. ^5 
 
 "No, Nora, let me talk now. Hereafter my lips are 
 sealed. Go the way of your heart marry him. But I? I 
 will still love you. I did not create it. I did not make it, 
 neither can I destroy it. I will be better for it, truer, a 
 nobler man, I hope. I am happy and yet miserable. Happy 
 when I think of you and miserable when I think you are 
 another's. But even in that thought I am happy because 
 of my love for you. I can find no comfort save in one 
 thought and that came to me the other night as I sat think 
 ing of you your wedding day next week," he said. "And 
 I made this myself because I was so wretched and I wanted 
 something to live by after you are married. I must ever 
 love you, ever worship you, for 
 
 Love is a star, 
 To be worshiped afar. 
 And, like it, should be above us. 
 
 "O, Tom," said Nora, sadly, for her heart ached for 
 him, "man's love is different from ours. You will think 
 differently " but she was too honest to say more even 
 too honest to try to detain him as she saw him walk sadly 
 away. 
 
 "Our love should be above us," Nora said to herself as 
 she sorrowfully watched him go down the road. "Ah, Tom 
 is right mine is above me; so brilliant and grand and bright 
 and and I love him so! But Tom poor Tom," she said as 
 she went in the gate, for the twilight had come, and her 
 father had lighted his pipe and the far-off aroma of tobacco 
 smoke filled the cool evening air. 
 
 II. 
 
 "I cannot be with you to-night, Nora," was the way 
 the note read which her father brought her from town. 
 "I am more than busy on an important case to be tried 
 to-morrow. I have studied up on it for twelve months it
 
 176 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 will be all over in a few days and then for my Nora and the 
 other roses at the old farm. I am busy now so busy. But 
 in the midst of all my work, do you know how often I 
 think of you and that I even take time to wonder why I 
 love you so? It is not your purity, sweetness, goodness, 
 truthfulness alone but something that tells me you are so 
 far above me, like a star which no man has even seen before." 
 
 "It will be all over in a few days," said the letter. Alas, 
 how true. For the bright mind went out that night a 
 string in the fine organism of his high-strung soul snapped 
 under the long work and tension, and the wedding was post 
 poned forever. * * * Nora did not know how many 
 years had gone by, but one June day she came out of the big 
 farm gate and strolled over, as she had years before, where 
 the same roses grew on the old stone fence and hung just 
 as beautifully around the walls. And the same love was in 
 her eyes, but it was a sweet, sad love. The roses were red 
 as ever, but her cheeks rivaled them no longer. She pulled 
 the roses as of yore, and they thought the night dew had 
 fallen on them when she raised them to her cheeks. She 
 looked up to heaven and the tears stood in her eyes: "Years 
 ago," she said, "I stood here. I was happy so happy. 
 To-day, thank God, I am happier, far happier. Then, my 
 love was of earth. Now, it is of heaven. Then, he was a 
 mortal. Now, he is a god." 
 
 She looked across the meadow to Tom's home, where 
 his children were playing in the yard, while the happy 
 father was bustling around. A faint beam of pleasure, that 
 Tom was hap'py, came over her face, and she said: 
 
 "Ah, Tom, now you know that man's love is not like 
 woman's: 
 
 Love is a star, 
 To be worshiped afar, 
 And, like it, should be above us. 
 
 "Yes, above us above us," she whispered through her
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. ^7 
 
 tears, as she looked up once more to the stars which were 
 just beginning to come out one by one, and then she went 
 silently in at the little gate. 
 
 And again the aroma of tobacco smoke floated out in 
 the still evening air. 
 
 IT CAN NOT BE. 
 
 IT can not be that this poor life shall end us ! 
 God's words are truthful and His ways are just. 
 He would not here to sin and sorrow send us, 
 
 And then blot out our souls with "Dust to Dust;" 
 Saving our clay, and back to Nature giving, 
 
 Smothering our soul ere it hath had its living. 
 It can not bel 
 
 It can not be that One so just and perfect 
 Would make a perfect universe, and plan 
 
 The star of all should be at last imperfect 
 
 Life, yet leave that life half lived in wretched man. 
 
 Forever lives the gross the dead material 
 
 Forever dies the life the spark imperial? 
 It can not be! 
 
 It can not be, for life is more than living; 
 
 It can not be, for death is more than dream. 
 Think ye to clod God daily life is giving, 
 
 Yet from the grave shut out the grander beam? 
 Night is but day ere it hath had its dawning 
 Death a brief night, and waiteth for the morning, 
 Which soon shall be! 
 
 Thou are not dead, sweet wife, I know thou livest, 
 
 Thou art not dead, for still the bright stars shine.
 
 !78 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Thou art not dead, for yet the live sun giveth 
 Light and had he e'er so sweet a light as thine? 
 Good night! good bye, were sorrow's grave of sorrow! 
 Good night! for we shall live and love to-morrow, 
 Because God lives! 
 
 /H-H 
 A LITTLE CRY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 A LITTLE cry in the night, 
 And fainter still at the dawn, 
 And the shadows creep then endless sleep, 
 Before the day is gone. 
 
 A little cry in the night, 
 
 So weak and yet so clear; 
 For many a day has passed away 
 
 And yet that cry I hear, 
 
 That little cry in the night 
 
 With the pleading eyes of blue 
 
 Wondering why, with their little cry, 
 They must live and suffer too. 
 
 Must suffer and then must sleep, 
 Tho' their day had just begun 
 
 A little pain, then night again, 
 And their little task undone. 
 
 A little cry in the night 
 
 A clear, sweet voice at even: 
 
 "My little cry was just good-bye, 
 I'm waiting for you in heaven."
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 179 
 
 'TIS BUT A DREAM. 
 
 DEEP in the night a timid, pleading voice, 
 A curly head above my pillow bent, 
 A sob, partaking part of Hope's rejoice, 
 
 And part of Doubt's despair and sad lament. 
 
 Dear nestling head sweet sleep! The first sunbeam: 
 
 "O, Father, I'm so glad 'twas but a dream!" 
 
 Methinks I, too, shall wake some gracious morn, 
 After life's dream and death's deep hushed night, 
 
 And as God's presence ushers in the dawn, 
 And His smile makes an aureole of light, 
 
 Then will the past a fretful vision seem: 
 
 "O, Father, I'm so glad 'twas but a dream!'* 
 
 THE SPELLING MATCH AT BIG SANDY. 
 
 OLD WASH came in the other night with his head 
 tied up, three inches of sticking plaster under his 
 left eye, and a cheese-cloth containing a freshly-cut chicken 
 gizzard bound under the other one. 
 
 "Boss, does you happen ter hab er bottle uv arniker 
 handy?" as he felt of his head to see that his bandages were 
 still on. 
 
 "What in the world is the matter with you, old man?" 
 was asked. "Any camp-meeting or revival going on over 
 about Indian Springs?" 
 
 "Wusser'n dat!" mournfully. 
 
 "What! You don't mean to say the election for deacon 
 is still going on?" 
 
 "Boss (solemnly), hit's wusser'n 'lection, camp-meetin', 
 reviler, lynchin' er enything else. We dun had er spellin' 
 match ober our way" and he jerked out his left leg ener-
 
 X 8o SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 getically "an' ef eber I gets my ban's on dat little merlatter 
 upstart of er skule teecher, Ebernezer Johnsing, he'll think 
 de Angel Gabriel done blowed his trumpet in his lef year. 
 
 "You see," he said, as he wiped his mouth on the back 
 of his hand, after I had given him a glass of Lincoln Coun 
 ty, made in 1878, to ease his misery, "dar hes bin er pow'ful 
 wak'nin' on egucashunal questions sence dey 'lected me skule 
 commisshuner ober dar. We 'lected Ebernezer Johnsing as 
 teecher, an' at de fus' meetin' ob de boa'd, sez I: 'Johnsing, 
 how am de bes' way to wak'n dis degenerit race ob vipers 
 up on de impo'tance ob egucashun? I'm skule commis 
 shuner heah now, an' sumpin's gotter be dun dis yer race 
 shan't grow up in ig'rance an' depravity 'round me.' 
 
 " 'Dar am jes' two t'ings needed,' sez Johnsing. 'We 
 need plenty uv good secon'-growth hick'ry an' now and then 
 er spellin' match,' an' den he 'splains whut er spellin' match 
 wus. I kno'd I wus er good speller, an' dey cudden't bust 
 my influence es commisshuner on dat line, an' I jest went 
 right in fer it. I got er good egucashun right arter de wah, 
 fer I went ter skule fer six mon's to er lady frum Bosting, 
 dat b'longed to de 'Sassiety fur Egucatin' de Nigger,' an' I 
 took mine early an' deep. I wus jes' spilin' ter show dem 
 niggers how er skule commishuner orter spell, ennyway, an' 
 de naixt Sund'y Pawson Shadrack Meeshack Phillips read 
 out at de eend ob de sarvice: 
 
 " 'Dar will be er highly amusin' an' instructive entertain 
 ment at Big Sandy skule house naixt Friday night fur de 
 risin' gen'rashun an' de organ fun'. All am invited to pre 
 cipitate.' 
 
 "Wai, I went ober an' tuck all de fambly. Dar was 
 er big crowd, an' de gals an' boys wus gwinter end up 
 wid er dance an' er candy pullin'. It wus pow'ful hot, but 
 dey would b'ild er big fiah in de skule stove an' put on er 
 big pot er sorghum fer candy stew. 
 
 " 'Skuse me, boss!" with an expression of intense pain
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. l8l 
 
 "but de misery in dis eye am 'tickler 'xcruciatin' jes' now. 
 Ernudder drap outen dat bottle, ef yer please. 
 
 "Wai, I 'spected, ob co'se, ter be de one ter gib out 
 de words, but dat Johnsing nigger tuck me off an' demanded 
 ter be erlowed ter gib out de words hisself, 'by virtue ob de 
 persishun he helt,' he sed. 'It's not bekase I can't spell all 
 de words in de book, Brudder Washington,' he say, 'but 
 sumtimes I gits er little confused an' can't git up de flow ob 
 language necessary to express 'em, an' ef I happen ter miss 
 er dozen er two words, sum nigger, not onderstandin' 'bout 
 my lack uv expressive language, might say I cudden't spell 
 an' spile my influence es a teacher in de community.' I seed 
 de p'int, an' 'lowed him ter gib out de words. Dey 'lected 
 me cap'n ob one side an' Brudder Moses Armstrong cap'n 
 ob de yudder. We chused sides an' stood on er plank in de 
 floor op'sit one ernuther. Now, de lumber wus green when 
 hit wus put down fur floorin' an' hed shrunk, an' dar wuz 
 big cracks wid ebry plank. 'Sides dat, er dozen good big 
 shoats hed gone up under de skule house, w'ich wus on de 
 slant ob de hill, an' dey hed crawled es fur es dey could, an' 
 squeezed deyselves erginst de groun' an de flo' an' gone ter 
 roost. Dem wus all little t'ings, but I've noticed in dis life 
 dat it am de little t'ings dat happen ebry day dat turns de 
 tide at last. Wai, Johnsing 'lowed he b'leeved in objec' 
 teachin', an' wanted us ter fus' spell de things layin' 'round 
 handy. An' he picked up er bottle an' he sez to Moses Arm 
 strong: 
 
 '"Spell dis.' 
 
 " 'I n k ink, s t a n stan, inkstan',' sez Moses. 
 
 ' 'Right,' sez Johnsing, an' he picks up a cheer an' sez 
 ter ernudder, 'Spell dis,' an' de yudder spell his right erlong: 
 
 " 'C h double e r, cheer.' 
 
 " 'Right,' sez Johnsing. 
 
 "An' den he looked at me an' pick up er little sharp stick 
 dat he used to p'int out sums on de boa'd wid, an' he say:
 
 182 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 " 'Brudder Washin'ton, spell dis.' 
 
 " 'P i n t pint, e r er, pinter,' sez I. 
 
 " 'Dat's wrong,' he say. 'Next, spell hit.' An' er little 
 nigger on de yudder side, not ten years ole, an' in his shut- 
 tail, jumps up quickly an' say: 
 
 " T o i n t point, e r er, pointer.' 
 
 " 'Right,' sez Johnsing; 'Brudder Washin'ton, you will 
 please sit down, sah. You am trapped.' 
 
 " 'Trapped, de debbil,' sez I, getting hot. 'You tell me 
 I can't spell pinter Hal Pinter? Ain't I dun rub him off 
 er hun'red times? Ain't I done gone all ober de Gran' 
 Circus wid Marse Ed Geers? Didn't we hab our pict'res 
 tuck at Clebeland togedder an' me a skule commishuner an' 
 can't spell de hoss I raised? You try ter disgrace me heah 
 wid dat 'ittle stick befo' dis community dat thou't I knowed 
 sumpin' 'bout er hoss? Yer blossom frum offen er yaller 
 dog-fennel,' sez I, 'I'm ready ter wipe de flo' wid you,' 
 an' I peeled erway at 'im wid my fis'.' 
 
 "Boss," said the old man, solemnly, "I don't kno' how 
 hit happened, but dey say dat sum ob de gals, 'spectin' a 
 fight, made er break ter git out an knocked ober de pot ob 
 b'ilin' candy, an' hit poured through de flo, on de hogs 
 sleepin' below. Nacherly dez riz es one hog, an' es dey wus es 
 fur under de house es dey cud go, w'en dey tried ter scrouge 
 under furder ter git outen de way sumpin hed ter bus', an' 
 dat wus de plank we all wus on. All I kno' is de flo' seemed 
 ter heave up an' I hit de ceilin' 'long wid er dozen er mo' 
 pettycoats an' striped stockins. Some fool nigger hollered 
 
 " 'Yarthquake! yarthquake! Dinnermite! dinnermite!' 
 an' when I hit de flo' ergin I made er leap fer de winder, 
 t'inkin' hit wus up. But hit wasn't, an' I went on t'rough, 
 carryin' de sash on my neck, wid my haid sticken' outen er 
 six-by-eight pane. I muster galloped two miles down de pike 
 befo' I cum to and seed what a collar I hed on. 
 
 "But look year, Boss" pulling a bandage down under
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 183 
 
 his eye "doncher kno' no winder glass didn't git me this 
 black eye? An' look yere, too" feeling a bump as big as a 
 goose egg on the side of his head "doncher kno' I didn't 
 git dat gallopin' down de road? Dat Johnsing fotch me two 
 licks jes' erbout de time de flo' riz, an' de fus' time I ketch 
 'im on de pike by hisself, I'm gwinter teach 'im how ter spell 
 P'inter 'er resign my office," and the old man went out to kill 
 a fresh chicken to poultice his head. 
 
 O 
 
 THE PINES OF MONTEREY. 
 
 shadow in a maiden's eye 
 
 Is love that once has been! 
 O, sweet moon-rainbow in the sky 
 
 That shuts our poor life in! 
 
 I see the young morn blushing, I see the cheek of May 
 Come paling, pinking, flecking, flushing- 
 Through the pines of Monterey. 
 
 Dear evergreens of memory 
 
 Sweet garlands of the past 
 The festooned frame of pictured sky 
 
 That will forever last! 
 
 I hear the faint bells ringing, I feel the breath of May 
 Come soughing, soughing, sobbing, singing 
 Through the pines of Monterey. 
 
 O, voices of the present day, 
 
 Vain sounds upon a blast 
 Leave me, let me weep away 
 
 The sweet tears of the past. 
 
 I hear her dear voice calling, I hear her voice to-day 
 Come laughing, ling'ring, falt'ring, falling- 
 Through the pines of Monterey.
 
 184 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 TO AN AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 BE manly, lad your folks have made 
 Their way by work and waiting, 
 Be manly, lad a spade's a spade 
 
 Though it hath a silver plating. 
 For all must work or all must steal 
 
 (What's idleness but stealing?) 
 To each will come his woe and weal 
 
 His weak or strong revealing. 
 And work makes brains, but error's chains 
 
 Are forged in fashion's idlene3s! 
 
 Be honest, lad you weaker grow 
 
 From gain that's falsely gotten. 
 Be honest, lad what's outward show 
 
 When all within is rotten? 
 For each must live or each must die 
 
 (What's honor lost, but dying?) 
 To live with Truth and you a lie! 
 
 Was ever death more trying? 
 And Truth makes men but falsehood's den 
 
 Is the home of dwarfs and pigmies! 
 
 WONDERFUL MEN. 
 (To My Mother.) 
 
 Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar. Long 
 fellow. 
 
 TRULY a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar, 
 Strong his will as his sword and both of Damascan 
 mettle, 
 
 Wonderful in his wars, more wonderful yet in his writings, 
 Firm his words and quick as the tramp of a Roman legion,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 185 
 
 Grand his thoughts and high as his standard, the Roman 
 
 eagle. 
 
 Whether 'mid gloomy woods, facing a foe barbaric, 
 Seizing a shield and a sword to turn the Nervian torrent, 
 Or 'mid Thessalonian plains sweeping Pompeian forces, 
 Or guiding with wisdom's reins the greatest of all the nations, 
 Always the wonderful man Caius Julius Caesar. 
 
 And yet, O wonderful man, O wonderful Julius Caesar, 
 In all your wonderful works no mention is made of your 
 
 mother, 
 
 In all your wonderful fights, you made no fight for woman! 
 And know you, wonderful man, imperial Julius Caesar, 
 From whom your wonderful nerve and wonderful heart for 
 
 battle? 
 'Twas she who flinched not beneath the cruel knife of the 
 
 surgeon, 
 
 Fighting a battle for you, grander than Gaul's or Egypt's, 
 Bringing you into the world and moulding you in her like 
 ness, 
 
 Stamping your soul with fire and stamping your mind with 
 greatness. 
 
 And truly a wonderful man was Cicero, the orator, 
 Pure his words and free and grand as a flowing river, 
 Lofty his flights and swift as an eagle soaring upward, 
 Showing to men through the rift the glory and beauty 
 
 above them. 
 Clenching the wisdom of years he hurled it with might 
 
 Titanic, 
 
 Yet tender even to tears when a Roman life hung on it. 
 Musical oft his words, as the march of the planets above 
 
 him, 
 Now sweet as the Lesbian birds, now stern as the shock of 
 
 battle.
 
 l86 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 And yet, O wonderful man, O greatest of ancient speakers, 
 In all your wonderful works no mention is made of your 
 
 mother, 
 
 Of all your speeches grand, not one was made for woman! 
 And yet 'twas she who gave you depth and beauty and 
 
 sweetness, 
 
 The voice to mimic the wave, the brush to paint the lily. 
 'Twas she who sowed in your soul the seeds of fanciful 
 
 flowers, 
 Erected aloft your goal and gave you the strength to win it. 
 
 And O, a wonderful man was Horace, the lyric poet, 
 Studding his sky with stars and decking his earth with 
 
 meadows, 
 
 Singing a song to his love while she blushes adown the ages, 
 Covering the ruins of Time with the fadeless leaf of his 
 
 laurel 
 Concealing the broken vase with the immortal bloom of his 
 
 roses. 
 
 And yet, O wonderful man, O sweetest of ancient poets, 
 
 Who gave you the hue to paint the carmiel cheek of your 
 roses, 
 
 Your lute, that sounds even now, through the mellow twi 
 light of ages; 
 
 Who gave you the pure, true eye for watching and loving 
 all nature, 
 
 And tuned your wonderful lyre till old Time stops to listen? 
 
 A wonderful creature was she, a wonderful, wonderful 
 woman 
 
 And yet, we ne'er had known, had we waited your muse to 
 tell it! 
 
 O these were wonderful men, and wonderful, too, their 
 country,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 187 
 
 And yet it has passed away, as a bubble when Time blows 
 
 on it; 
 Passed, as they all have passed, where might is greater than 
 
 Mother, 
 Passed, as they all have passed, where wife is less than 
 
 mistress, 
 Passed, as they all will pass, who have no throne for woman. 
 
 HOW THE BISHOP BROKE THE RECORD. 
 
 (Old Wash is a Baptist and it was with great difficulty 
 and many misgivings that I induced him to go out to the 
 Episcopal church recently and hear the Bishop of Tennessee 
 preach. The old man went wild over the sermon and this 
 is the peculiar way he took to tell about it.) 
 
 WAL, sah, I went in dar an' sot down in dat part of de 
 gran' stand set off fur de colored folks. I look er- 
 roun' an' seed leetle bannisters an' things runnin' 'round 
 'bout de prooties' an' neates' mile track you eber seed, wid 
 de fence all painted wid gold an' lit up wid 'lectric lights. 
 Butiful pictures hung up in de club house gallery an' de 
 soft light cum in through de painted winders. I tell you, 
 sah, dese yere Piscolopiums kno' how to keep up dey church 
 track, if dey do stick to de high wheel sulky, an' kinder think 
 dat er record made dar, at dat way ob gwine, will 'title 'em to 
 registration in de final year book quickern enny yudder track. 
 An' it wus er good un for it run erroun' es smooth es er wid- 
 der's courtship an' it hed bin harrered an' scraped an' rolled 
 till it wus es slick es er carpet ob banana peels. 
 
 "You ain't nurver noticed how dese church tracks differ 
 frum one er nudder, hes you, Boss?" asked the old man, with 
 a sly smile. "Wai, dey do. Now, ef dat hed bin er Mefodis 
 track it wouldn't er hed no fence erroun' it, kinder free fur
 
 r 88 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 all, no money to be paid at the gate and free lunch fur ebry- 
 body. If it had bin a Baptis' track it would er bin out in 
 some big medder bottom, an' stid ob bein' roun', it would 
 jes' foller de meanderins ob de ribber, handy fur spungin' 
 off de horses. An' dey wouldn't 'low nuffin' to go on dat 
 track but pacers, either, an' dey must all be ob de Hal fambly 
 kinder close kin, yer kno'. De Presberterians would er 
 had dey track es 'roun' es it cu'd be' an' sech er high, white 
 washed fence 'roun' it dat nobody cud see ober it, an' 'bout 
 ebry haf hour dey would run out er big fo'-hoss sprinkler, 
 furever sprinklin' an' sprinklin' it, eben fur de yearlin' races. 
 O, it's funny ter see how dey all deffer," he said. 
 
 "But dar dis one wus, es prooty es it cu'd be, an' free 
 fur all. An' jes' off to de lef dey had de nices' leetle jedges' 
 stan' all painted in silver an' trimmed wid gold, while de 
 timers' box sat on de right wid leetle peep holes in it an' 
 pictures ob flyin' things wid wings jes' erbove hosses dat 
 had broken de recurds, I spec. Jes' den de ban' in de ban' 
 stan' struck up de sweetes' music I urver heurd. It went all 
 through my soul an' made me feel like I wus er chile ergin 
 an' my good ole mammy, long dead an' gone, wus singin' 
 me ter sleep at de cabin on de ole plantashun, to de tune 
 ob 'De ole folks at home.' Den de perfume floated out like 
 de smell ob de jess'mins I useter smell by de cabin do', 
 an' de candles flickered on de quarter posts like de fireflies 
 in de dusk ob my childhood days, an' all dese things jes 
 made me hongry to heah sum good gospil ergin. Bimeby, 
 sum leetle angel boys all dressed in white wid shinin' col 
 lars cum marchin' in singin' an' bringin' programs fur de 
 races in dey han's leastwise dat's what I tuk 'em to be. 
 I tell you, sah, it wus gran', an' es I sot dar an' tuck it all in 
 an' looked at dat shinin' track wid de golden fence, I sed 
 to myself: 
 
 "'Great Scott! but ef dey can't go fast on dis track I 
 lakter kno' whut de yuse ob tryin' enny yudder!'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 189 
 
 "When de music stopped de feller in de j edges' stan' 
 made some 'nouncements an' den he 'lowed dat de Bishop 
 ob Tennessee would go er exerbishun mile ergin time, an' 
 den I heurd de bell ring tingerling, tingerling, an' de ban' 
 struck up lively lak, an' de Bishop cum pacin' in. Soon es 
 I looked at 'im, sez I: 
 
 " 'He'll do he's er good un! Got mos' too much riggin' 
 on 'im to suit my taste, but den ebry man knows whut's bes' 
 fur his own hoss. Ef he wus mine I'd take off dat sweater 
 an' white blankit wid red embroidery, dem knee boots an' 
 dat obercheck. His gait's all right an' true es clockwork, 
 an' he don't need nuffin' but er pair ob quarter boots an' 
 fo'-ounce shoes. But dat's all right/ I sed ergin, 'eberybody 
 knows whut's bes' fur his own hoss an' dem fancy riggins 
 am prooty, ter-be-sho'.' 
 
 "Graceful? He wus es graceful es er swan on er silver 
 lake, an' es he paced up de quarter stretch to sco' down, I 
 seed dat he wus gwinter gib de recurd er close call. Down 
 he cum so smooth you cudden't see his riggin', an' es nachul 
 es er eagle draps frum his mountin peak in de valley belo'. 
 Dey didn't hafter say 'go' to him but onc't an' den he went 
 er way lak er winged angel on de top spar ob er flyin' yot.' 
 
 " 'He that loseth his life for my sake shall save it/ he 
 said, an' ebry lick he hit went home to de ole man's hart. 
 O, hit wus er clip. He tuck up Greek art an' literachure an' 
 he painted it so beautiful you cud see de statue ob Diana 
 beam outen his eyes 'an' de grace ob Apollo fall frum his 
 hands. Away he went at dat prooty clip till he sud'n'y 
 shifted his gait an' struck de follies ob dis wurl, an' den I 
 seed whut all dat riggin' wus fur, fur he turned it into er 
 toga an' he looked like Jupiter es he shook de roof wid his 
 speed an' his stride." 
 
 " 'He's gwine too fast fur de fus' quarter/ I sed, as I 
 sot holdin' my bref; but befo' de wurds wus out he seed it, 
 too, an' he check up er leetle an' he cum down es gently
 
 I 9 o SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 es de summer winds play but ergitten' dar all de time! an' 
 den he tell us how all dis art an' all dis interlect want nuffin' 
 ef we didn't lub God an' do right an' lib pure libes, an' his 
 voice wus lak de music ob de winds in de valley, an' ebrything 
 he say jes' peer to be dat way an' no argyment and all de 
 time he wus jes' ergitten' dar an' es he passed de fus' quarter 
 I cudden't help it, I jes' tuck out my ole watch an' snapped 
 it, an' dar it stood 30 seconds, holy Moses! 
 
 "But dat didn't wind 'im, for he started in de naixt quar 
 ter so fas' I thout sho' he gwine fly in de air. But he didn't. 
 He fairly burnt up de track ob sin an' folly an' littleness an' 
 meanness, an' he made de leetle rail birds ob selfishness fly 
 to de woods, an' de gamblers ob society went off to hedge, 
 an' de touts ob scandal slunk erway, an' de drivers of trick 
 an' cheat hunted for ernuther track, an' de timers of folly 
 throwed erway dey watch an' all de time he wus ergittin' 
 dar an' he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot nur 
 missed his clip, an' he made de ole high wheel sulky trimble 
 all over lak er leaf in de storm, an' he showed how ebrybody 
 reap whut dey sow; how de artis' lib in art, an' de poit in 
 poltry, an' de patriot in de harts ob his countrymen, all arter 
 dey dun dead an' buried. An' 'O,' he sed, so sarchin' lak 
 I see de folks trimble, 'ef you lib fur de wurl you'll die wid 
 de wurl; but ef you lib fur God you'll nurver die.' An' I cud 
 see it all so plain an' so quick an' so terribul an' so true I 
 jes' pulled out my ole timer ergin es he passed de haf, an' 
 click! dar she stood 59%! 
 
 " 'By de horn ob de Tabbernacle,' sez I, 'he can't keep 
 up dat clip! Dat's de haf dat burnt up Joe Patchen!' 
 
 "But I tell you, Boss, his name wus P'inter he had no 
 noshun ob quittin'. He spun erlong on de straight stretches 
 lak he had er runnin' mate, an' you'd wonder whut hilt 'im 
 to de yearth, den he ease up gently on de turns ob de track 
 whar he hit de doubters an' de 'siety an' de fools 'dat grasp 
 at de bubbles ob wealth an' folly on de ribber, an* let de
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. I 9I 
 
 mighty stream wid all its depth an' grandeur pass onnoticed 
 to the ocean' as he sed, he ease up dar an' ketch his bref 
 so gently lak, and sorrerful, you'd think he gwine stop an' 
 weep fur 'em, an' you feel lak weepin' yourse'f, fur yore own 
 follies an' de follies ob de wurl but all de time he wus gittin' 
 dar! an' ef he did ease up es he went up de hill, it wus only 
 jes' long enuf ter let de light shine down on him frum heben, 
 an' he seemed to linger jes' er minnit in de sweetnes' ob its 
 glory. 
 
 "I wiped erway a tear an' snapped my ole timer ergin 
 1:30%! 'Dat's good Baptis' doctrine,' sez I, 'ef it am a trifle 
 speedy. Lord, ef he do bust de recurd I hope you'll gib 'im 
 de Atlantic ocean to spunge off in sumpin' in keepin' wid 
 his own nachur.' An' den I close my eyes gently lak, I feel 
 so good, an' I sing softly to mysef dat good ole hymn, sung 
 by Moses an' de profets so long ergo: 
 
 'Baptis', Baptis' is my name 
 
 I'm Baptis' till I die. 
 I've been baptized in de Baptis' church, 
 Gwin'ter eat all de Baptis' pie! 
 
 Hard trials, 
 Great tribelashuns, chilluns, 
 
 Hard trials, 
 I'm gwine ter leab dis wurl.' 
 
 "But bless you, honey, he wus jes' playin' on dem yudder 
 quarters; he commenced to pace now. He got right down 
 on de groun, an' dough he didn't make no fuss an' you 
 cudn't see er moshun, nur eben de spokes ob de sulky, he 
 talked lak er dyin' muther to her wayward boy. He scorned 
 de track of dis wurl an' seemed to be pacin' in de pure air 
 ob God, an' yit he didn't rouse er angry wind, nur bring out 
 de loud shouts from de wurldly gran' stan', nur de hoozars 
 of victory, nor de wild frenzy ob delight but des tears, sweet
 
 1 92 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 tears. I cried lake er baby. I furgot ter time 'im. De soft 
 light cum in frum de winder ob God an' got inter de winder 
 ob de ole man's hart. De smell ob ae yearthly flowers wus 
 turned to Heabenly ones, an' when his soft, 'pealin' voice died 
 away an' de sweet 'pealin' music commenced, I cudn't tell 
 whar de sermin ended an' de music begun, dey run togedder 
 so. I sot in er sort ob er dream; I wanted to go to Heaben; I 
 heurd de white folks all pass quietly out; I heurd de notes 
 cb de organ die erway, but I sot in de cornder, way off 
 by mysef, an' thanked God dat I'd seed de light an' heurd 
 de recurd ob salvation busted." 
 
 CHRISTMAS MORN. 
 
 IN the beauty of its breaking, in the music of its dawn, 
 Like an angel chorus 'waking when the Heavenly day is 
 born, 
 
 Comes again the day of promise, 
 Comes again the Christmas morn. 
 Beam, bright Eastern sky in glory, till our doubt clouds roll 
 
 away; 
 
 Ring, sweet Christmas bells the story, ring forever and for 
 aye, 
 
 Till our living be but loving 
 And our dying be but day. 
 
 TO WHITTIER, DEAD. 
 
 AY, speed thou on, gray voyager, 
 But not to a breezeless sea! 
 Nor shall oblivion claim the soul 
 That lived and loved in thee.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 193 
 
 The heart that throbbed for others, 
 The mind that thought no wrong, 
 
 The lips that always spoke the truth 
 Through soul of courage strong, 
 
 Oh, these shall live forever, 
 
 God gave them, not to die, 
 But sweetly bloom above thy tomb 
 
 Through all eternity. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 TIP-TOE on morning star, 'mid purpling light, 
 The day queen throws her kisses to the world, 
 Then stands abashed a moment, as in plight 
 
 From maiden shyness, while around is filrl'd 
 The fleecy lace of clouds, with skirts of blue 
 Trailing adown to hills of azure hue. 
 
 A sudden flirting of a dew-wet wing, 
 
 As out from leafy bush or hedge-thatched lair 
 The throbbing throats at once begin to sing 
 And distant pipes fall on the sweet, cool air. 
 The cattle rise from shaded beds along, 
 And add their cow-bell cymbals to the song. 
 
 Deep spreads the blush around Aurora's cheeks, 
 Purpling the bloom of ripen'd lips and then 
 Closer she draws her drapery as she seeks 
 To hide her beauty from the eyes of men. 
 And lo! the jealous sun leaps up to fold 
 Her melting glory in his arms of gold.
 
 194 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 HOW ROBERT J. BROKE THE RECORD. 
 
 LAST week I took old Wash up to Terre Haute to see 
 Robert J. go against the world's record. He was 
 turned loose with Billy Fitzgerald, Ed. Geer's Tennessee 
 cook, and I saw no more of the old man till he came in Sat 
 urday night in a semi-comatose condition and proceeded to 
 tell us how Robert J. broke the record: 
 
 "Marse Ed cum out on de track wid dat ornery-lookin' 
 little pacer. Yer wouldn't gib fifty dollars fer dat hoss, boss, 
 ef you'd er seed 'im in de stall, he's dat no-'count-lookin' an' 
 sprung-kneed an' cat-hammed. But on de track you'd gib 
 fifty t'ousan' for de shake ob hees tail an' t'ank Gord fer de 
 prib'lege ob seein' 'im shake it. I've heurd ob de transfo'- 
 mashun ob de prophet, but he ain't in it wid Robert J. Marse 
 Ed sot quiet lak an' onconsarned, but de white folks clap dair 
 han's an' holler w'en he jog by. Marse Ed nod hees haid, 
 same es ter say, 'Much 'b'leeged ter yer all, but dis yer am my 
 busy day,' an' he jog on 'round. Torectly, de big white man 
 dat sot in de roun' box an' wave de red flag at de hosses and 
 talk sassy to de drivers ef dey don't score down right, he got 
 up an' he say, 'Stop er moment, Mistah Geers,' an' Marse 
 Ed he stop. Den de boss man turn 'round to de big stan' 
 whar all de white folks sot, an' he say: 'Ladies and gen'el- 
 mans, Robert J., de great pacer f'om Tennessee, driven by de 
 onliest Edward Geers, will now go ergin de worl' record ob 
 two, two an' a half. I beg yer ter keep quiet twell de record 
 am busted." 
 
 "Come! come! You know he didn't say Tennessee horse. 
 Robert J. was bred in Pennsylvania," I interrupted. 
 
 "Boss, I'm tellin' yer whut I heurd myse'f. Ef you wants 
 ter make a pome outen et, in cou'se yer kin 'range de fac's 
 ter suit youse'f. I wus dar un heurd 'im say et." 
 
 "Well, go on." 
 
 "De people all clap der han's, an' hoorayed ergin, an' 
 Marse Ed jogged on back up de stretch, lookin' lak he jes'
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 195 
 
 gwine ter mill fer er bushel er meal an' 'lowed ter git back 
 'long tow'ds sun-down. But fus' t'ing I knowed I heurd er 
 kinder patter-patter, patter-patter, patter-patter, an' den er 
 kinder bipperty-bip, bipperty-bip, bipperty-bip, an' I look up 
 an' heah cum dat little old pacer, jes' er flyin', wid er runnin' 
 hoss in er sulky by he side, an' er doin' all he could ter keep 
 up. I grab er white man by me an' say: 
 
 "Mistah, don't dat man cum wid hees grist in er hurry?" 
 But de man punch ernudder man standin' by 'im, an' say: 
 
 " 'Ven did dis coon coom outen de 'sylum?' 
 
 "But I was lookin' at dat Robert J. an' de w-a-y he did 
 fly! Down de track he went, turnin' de corner lak a skeered 
 cat goin' 'round de kitchen chimbley wid de yard dog arter 
 'im. But Marse Ed nebber move er muscle ner bat er eye. 
 He jes' sot dar silen' es death in er country chu'ch yard, an' 
 still es de bronze angel on er deacon's tomb. He look lak 
 de speerit ob '76 on wheels an' termined es er ole maid when 
 she make up her min' ter marry de Mefodis' preacher wid 
 ten mudderless chilluns. An' fo' goodness, Boss, I cudden' 
 see Robert J. 'tall! All I seed was 'is shadder on de white 
 washed fence beyond, an' dat scudded erlong lak a March 
 cloud flyin' ercrost de sun's face. At de fus' quarter I heurd 
 sumpin' sorter shettin' wid er snap, bang, an' I looked up in 
 some pigeon-holes in de timer's stan', an' dar wus hung out 
 30 3-4, an' eb'rybody was hollerin' an an' Robert J. still er 
 flyin'! 
 
 " 'Great scotts! how he climbs dat hill,' sed er man by me. 
 De onliest hill I seed wus er hill erbout fo' mile erway, on 
 de yudder side de Warbash ribber, an' I look ober dar 'spect'- 
 in' ter see Robert J. gwine up dar, sulky an' all, fur I could 
 er b'lieved eny thing 'bout 'im now arter seein' 'im go dat 
 fus' quartah, but I didn't see no Robert J. ober dar, an' I say 
 ter de man: 
 
 " 'Mistah, what hill dat you talkin' 'bout?' an' he stare at 
 me mad-lak, an' say:
 
 I9 6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 " 'Ef yer don't stop trompin' on my toes an' quit breath- 
 in' yo' bref in my face, I'll make er dead nigger outen yer!' 
 
 "I seed dat man wasn't social 'tall, an' I let 'im erlone. 
 But I heurd ernudder snap bang in de pigeon-holes, an' I 
 look ergin an' dar wus hung out i :oo 3-4, an' de folks all 
 stan'in' on deir haids an' hollerin' an' Robert J. still erflyin'! 
 
 "Roun' de third quarter he cum, wid de runner an' 'im 
 nose an' nose, lak er team, an' yer couldn' tell which wus 
 which 'cept de runner's haid kep' bobbin' up an' down an' 'is 
 driver er whippin' an' er slashin' while Robert J.'s nose neb- 
 ber moved up ner down er inch, an' Marse Ed settin' dar lak 
 er statoo ov er Greek god on er charyut. Snap! bang! 1:30 1-4 
 dey hung out, an' den sech er shout es dey sent up an' Rob 
 ert J. still erflyin'! 
 
 "Dey didn' wanter stop hollerin', an' de boss man got 
 up an' beg 'em an' beg 'em an' wave hees han's, an' shouted 
 fer quiet, an' de folks in de fus' row dey all stan' up an' look 
 back at dem behin' an' say sh-h-h! sh-h-h-h! sh-h-h-h-h! an' 
 de gran' stan' stop so still you could'er heurd er pin drap 
 in de middle ob de naixt century an' Robert J. still er 
 flyin'! 
 
 "He turn de cohner. De angels played on er harp 
 ob er thousan' strings in my years, an' I thought 
 I wus in ernudder worl'! I fohgot whar I wus. 
 'Feared lak 'twus me in de sulky, an' I grab er pair er spike 
 coat-tails b'longin' to er dude in front ob me, fur reins, an' 
 wid bof eyes on dat flyin' hoss I commenced ter cluck myse'f. 
 De win' roared in my years es I flew erlong; de fence 'roun' 
 de track look lak er white-washed string hung in de air, an' 
 de track itsef 'peared ter be er toboggan slide down de highes' 
 peak ob de Alps, an' de sulky wus gwine down et, pulled by 
 flyin' eagles an' mounting deers! 'Twas sweeter'n de angels 
 in dair glory! Bipperty-bip! bipperty-bip! bipperty-bip! 
 cum dat yer runner! Click-klock! click-klock! click- 
 klock cum dat sweet 'ittle pacer. Snap, bang! 2:01 1-2 went
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 197 
 
 de timer's box, an' I turn two summersets, shouted 'glory 
 
 hallyluja!' busted inter ten thousan' pieces, an' went home 
 
 ter glory! 
 
 "When I cum to I wus huggin' er trottin'-bred nigger 
 
 frum Indiana, an' singin' : 
 
 Hark frum de tomb, yer trottin' coon 
 We've sot yer er record yer won't bust soon!" 
 
 HAL POINTER AT BUFFALO. 
 (When he won the $10,000 purse.) 
 
 THEY score for the word, teeth clinched on the steel bit, 
 With muscles like fagots, and nostrils afire, 
 Each ready to race for a kiss or a kingdom 
 
 Their thundering sulkies flash under the wire. 
 "Go!" and they're gone while the gleaming silk jackets 
 
 Flash out from the hurricane cloud on the marge, 
 Speeding away through the dust that hangs o'er them 
 Like pennons that close in a cavalry charge. 
 
 Around the first turn what a picture of fleetness! 
 
 A thrice double team breast to breast in a line, 
 With thin, darting ears laid back as they listen 
 
 For each cheering word from their reinsmen behind. 
 With strides like the strokes of a frictionless piston, 
 
 And breath like the breath of the steam just beneath, 
 They go with the courage of Greek at the Persian 
 
 With joy like the Victor's at sight of the wreath. 
 
 But see! one is up his bold stride has been broken, 
 How he tosses his foam-fleck'd mane to and fro, 
 
 So eager to go so impatient of curbing 
 Did e'er battling human more eagerness show?
 
 198 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Away sped the others! with horse as with human 
 The hindmost must fret along Fate's dusty route, 
 
 While the foremost speeds on to the goal and the music, 
 To Beauty's bright glance and the multitude's shout. 
 
 Look! Look! 'tis a drive full fast now and furious, 
 
 They're nearing the wire and the red flag is out, 
 Neck to neck, heart to heart, stride for stride they thunder 
 
 Ah, woe to the faint heart that dares now to doubt! 
 But see! from the bunch comes, keen as an arrow, 
 
 With courage of demon and speed well in hand 
 "Hal Pointer! Hal Pointer!!" the heavens re-echo, 
 
 The rest it is lost in the roar from the stand. 
 
 THE TRACK AROUND THE STOVE. 
 
 YOU may talk about your kite-shaped and your regulation 
 tracks, 
 
 With their soil made by nature for the feet of flying cracks; 
 You may brag about their home stretch and their undulating 
 
 sway, 
 
 And swear that every single one is down hill all the way; 
 But the fastest track that mortal man in fancy ever wove 
 Is in the village grocery, and it runs around the stove. 
 
 When bleak old Boreas on his steed comes charging from the 
 
 North, 
 
 And other tracks are closed up as he stalks in glory forth, 
 'Tis then the track around the stove is ready for the fray 
 And the breaking of the records may be heard a mile away; 
 For the magic of this matchless track is like Aladdin's grove, 
 And the horse just flies that hits it this track around the 
 
 stove.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 199 
 
 No need of any sulky nay, the horse need not appear 
 Just give the driver two good drinks and see the way is clear. 
 Every swipe around the village that has rubbed a horse's 
 
 shanks 
 Just turns his steeds of fancy loose and wipes out Nancy 
 
 Hanks; 
 Every plow-boy who with cotton lines and Balaam's ass 
 
 e'er strove 
 Is then and there a Goldsmith on this track around the 
 
 stove. 
 
 But, alas! when springtime cometh, with the flow'ry breath 
 
 of May, 
 
 These record breakers all go wrong and go to hauling hay 
 And the Pointers and the Alixes, of whom this tale is told, 
 Just bid the world a fond good-bye and crawl into their hole! 
 Then the Goldsmiths go to plowing, and the Geers the world 
 
 to rove, 
 And the rats up in the attic run this track around the stove. 
 
 HAL POINTER ON MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 1 NOTICED that our old friend, Hal Pointer, turned out 
 on Decoration Day at Tyrone, Pa., and honored the 
 occasion by pacing the half-mile track in 2:16%, last half in 
 1:09. I judge from the report that this was done in honor of 
 the opening day of the association; but chiefly in honor of 
 the day itself the Memorial Day of the brave Union dead. 
 
 It is peculiarly fitting that Hal Pointer should do this, 
 for around the home of his cradle flashed the hottest fires 
 of the Civil War, and the land that gave him being had the 
 temper of its heart of steel tried in the whitest heat of the 
 conflict. The air he first breathed was the same that echoed to 
 the shot and shout of Franklin; the water he first drank was
 
 200 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 tributary to that which ran in red currents between the banks 
 of the "bloody Harpeth;" while the very grass he first 
 nibbled was made luxuriant by the blood of the blue and 
 the gray. The same element of sun and soil that made the 
 mortal parts of those that bared their bosoms to the lance 
 of war, made him; and the indomitable spirit of his near 
 ancestors was that which carried Forrest and Wheeler on 
 their reckless raids. If there was ever a horse which comes 
 near representing the unflinching spirit of the old South, 
 that horse is Hal Pointer; and it is peculiarly appropriate, to 
 my mind, that he should turn out on Memorial Day and lay, 
 in the twilight of his life, the tribute wreaths of his matchless 
 courage and speed on the grave of a brave and honored 
 enemy. 
 
 And why not? What is Prejudice that it should claim 
 authority to teach me to despise the graves of those who 
 differed from me in life me, who must so soon lie down 
 to measure graves with mine enemy? What is Hatred that 
 I should allow it to put a blind bridle on me and ride me 
 to the devil? What is Ignorance that it should ask me to 
 sit under the shadow of its wing and imagine I am a seer in 
 the lighted halls of Wisdom? God made me free and by 
 God's help none of these shall make me his slave. 
 
 The man in the North who will hate, after all these 
 years, his brave brother in the South, is both a fool and a 
 coward; and the man in the South who has not learned to 
 forgive and forget, who would not decorate the grave of a 
 brave enemy, is twin brother to him at the North. Perhaps 
 the war was a bloody blessing. God alone knows why it 
 should have been. But out of it has come a cemented Union 
 which, God grant, will live forever. Does the England of 
 to-day think any less of the brave Scotch whose inde 
 pendence and courage so often defied them around the ban 
 ners of Wallace and Bruce, or the Irish "who have fought 
 successfully the battles of all the world save their own?" If
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 2OI 
 
 she does, she must first erase from her history the glorious 
 achievements of Blenheim, Trafalgar and Waterloo. 
 
 I shall not have lived in vain if I can teach one simple 
 lesson to the North and one equally as simple to the South. 
 That lesson is quickly told: "Be charitable; for your enemy 
 died believing he was right and fighting for the identical 
 principle involved in Bunker Hill and Yorktown." For, 
 strange as it may seem, the principle involved was identical, 
 differing only in the manner of its application. 
 
 When I hear the plaudit of a gun each morning and look 
 out of my library window to see Old Glory flutter up to 
 his flag staff away above the tall trees of the arsenal, to 
 catch the first kiss from the only light that is his equal, my 
 heart swells with love and joy at his greatness and power. 
 I love it because it stands for equal rights and equal chance 
 for all men; because it has grown so great in principle and 
 so strong in might that it can say to the most arrogant of 
 tyrants: "Give your oppressed people the rights of civilized 
 beings," and he gives them; or to the most powerful: "Tread 
 not on the toes of your helpless little neighbor," and she 
 treads not. I love it for all these, but chiefly because it is 
 the flag of my own country, the making of which those of my 
 own blood and clime lent no unwilling hands. 
 
 And yet when I look on my mantel and see the little 
 faded flag there, 
 
 "Representing nothing on God's earth now 
 And naught in the waters below it," 
 
 nothing except the blood of a valorous dead and the honesty 
 of an unflinching devotion to principle (as if these could be 
 nothing) I cannot, to save my life, help shedding tears. 
 
 And so I live 'twixt a smile and a tear, as Byron hath 
 it knowing that God is good and just, and will judge us 
 all, not by our failures or our successes, but by the truthful 
 ness and honesty of our purpose.
 
 202 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 So pace on, old Pointer, and in the sunset of your life 
 do greater deeds of loving kindness than you ever did while 
 vanquishing your enemies in the hey-day of your fame 
 
 "Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the Judgment day, 
 Love and tears for the blue, 
 Tears and love for the gray." 
 
 THE LILY OF FORT CUSTER. 
 
 AND you want me to tell you the story, lad, of the old 
 horse, Tennessee, 
 
 The stqjit red roan I rode alone on the track of that 
 
 snake Pawnee, 
 The meanest Indian that ever bit dirt, and I hope he is roast 
 
 ing to-day, 
 For I ain't had a mount that was any account since What 
 
 did you say? 
 Go on with the story? Why, that's what I am, and I'm 
 
 going to tell it my way! 
 A Hal he was the Indian, you ask? Young man, if I had 
 
 my gun 
 You'd go to the spirit land yourself before this here tale 
 
 was done. 
 Three stout crosses of running blood old Traveler, Titno- 
 
 leon, Empire 
 A Hal on that! Aye, there's the horse the devil himself 
 
 can't tire, 
 
 Molded as trim as a Catling gun and full to the brim of its 
 fire. 
 
 I raised him from a colt myself. My father gave him to mi 
 When I rode West with Ouster's men of the Seventh Cavalry,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 203 
 
 Away to the shade and the shadow-land, where the Rockies 
 
 prop the sky, 
 And the bison herd, like a powder-brown bird, afar on the 
 
 trail doth fly 
 But we never flickered in all that ride, neither Tennessee 
 
 nor I. 
 
 And gaits? There wasn't a horse in camp could go all the 
 
 gaits like him 
 Canter and pace and single-foot and fox-trot smooth and 
 
 trim. 
 He led the wing when the bugler would sing "Boots and 
 
 Saddles !" Away ! 
 From sun to sun there was never a run that he wasn't in it 
 
 to stay 
 The showiest horse on dress parade, the gamest in the fray. 
 
 And the Rockies! O, the Rockies, lad! God made 'em to 
 
 teach us how 
 To look from earth to Grandeur's birth to His own great 
 
 beetling brow. 
 I never had seen a mountain, lad! How they thrilled! How 
 
 they loomed on me! 
 
 Granite and cloud wrapped in a shroud of snow eternally, 
 So different from the sweet green hills of dear old Tennessee. 
 
 Homesick I grew, I know not why, when we camped in the 
 
 far Sioux land; 
 Things were so solemn and silent there silent and solemn 
 
 and grand 
 And I longed again to see the plain and the rolling waves 
 
 of wheat, 
 And the low, soft music of the grain in the June days rustling 
 
 sweet,
 
 204 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 And the gay notes of the mocking bird, where the Duck and 
 the Bigby meet. 
 
 But out at the Fort was a maiden, 
 
 A maiden fair to see, 
 And I fell dead in love with her, 
 
 And she with Tennessee, 
 For she learned to ride upon him, 
 
 And her gallop across the plain 
 Would make you think Athene had come 
 
 To break the winged horse again. 
 
 And she was the Captain's daughter, 
 
 In rank above me far 
 As above the fire-fly in the grass 
 
 Beams out the evening star. 
 But Love he smiles at epaulets 
 
 As he laughs at bolts and bar. 
 
 With eyes like the skies when the shower is over, 
 And the rain drops are soothing the cheeks of the clover- 
 Dear drops of sympathy all too soon over! 
 
 And a face like a vase with two rose-buds in it, 
 
 Rosebuds of cheeks, to change in a minute 
 
 To the puckered-up throat of a sweet-singing linnet. 
 
 And curls like the whirls of the clouds, when the Day-king 
 
 Stops his bold ride to the West, ere making 
 
 His bed in their bank and his night-goblet taking. 
 
 And lips like the dew-wine he sips in the morning 
 (Mistaking her eyes for the day's in its dawning), 
 Mistaking her eyes and sweet Eos' scorning.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 205 
 
 And her soul! 'Twas the goal of the Angels and Graces, 
 Seen in their face as they play in their races 
 The purest of souls in the purest of places. 
 
 And I? 
 
 Followed no flag but the blue of her bonnet. 
 And I marched and I charged by the white streamers on it. 
 And yet when she turned her blue batteries on me 
 Brought up her reserve to ride o'er and scorn me, 
 1 was wretched, and sorry my mother had borne me. 
 And surrendered, I did, though my heart was enraptured-- 
 A prisoner, yet gloried by her to be captured. 
 
 And she? 
 
 When she was certain I'd never be free 
 Gave me her pity and loved Tennessee. 
 
 Heydey! And I say 
 
 But that is the way 
 Love is a tyrant that never grows old. 
 
 Bonnet and curl 
 
 Lord, all my world 
 Got under that sheen of gold. 
 
 Heydey! Still I say 
 
 If naught's in the way 
 What glory in battling for beauty to love us? 
 
 Love is a star, 
 
 To be worshipped afar, 
 And, like it, should be above us. 
 
 Heydey! Yet I say 
 
 There's many a way 
 That love finds his own, though his own be not waiting. 
 
 And lips may be mute, 
 
 And eyes may refute, 
 But hearts made to mate find a way for the mating.
 
 2 o6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 In our long ride up from the valley 
 
 A Pawnee chief we found 
 Old Bone-in-the-Face they called him then, 
 
 But now he is bone-in-the-ground. 
 Starving he was when we picked him up, 
 
 And racked with ague and pain, 
 But he taught us a lesson we'll never forget, 
 
 Which I don't mind telling again 
 The good Indians live in the school books, lad, 
 
 The bad ones all live on the plain. 
 
 The coyote! We nursed and cured him, 
 
 And then he turned his eyes 
 To the Lily, God help her! and when she rode 
 
 From the Fort 'neath the sweet June skies 
 To pluck the flowers that grew on the plain 
 
 (A pony she rode that day) 
 The Pawnee stole the Colonel's horse 
 
 And slipped, with a Sioux away. 
 Away on the track of the Lily, 
 
 Like wolves on the trail of a fawn, 
 Two hours before a soul in camp 
 
 Knew the treacherous dogs were gone 
 Two hours before alarm's shrill voice 
 
 Waked the echoing sentry's horn! 
 
 Away on the track of the Lily, and they lassoed her pony 
 
 and rode 
 With her bound in the saddle and helpless, to Sitting Bull's 
 
 band at the ford 
 To Sitting Bull's tent! for a life that was worse than living 
 
 in hell's own abode. 
 
 The alarm gun was sounded, we rushed through the gate 
 the Captain, the Corporal, and I
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 307 
 
 The moon had just risen, a trifle too late to see the sun 
 sink in the sky. 
 
 The Captain looked black as the charger he rode, the Cor 
 poral sat grim on his gray, 
 
 While I? just patted old Tennessee's neck and he struck 
 that long gallop to stay. 
 
 We struck the trail quickly; 'twas plain as could be, the 
 
 pony's flat track in the sand. 
 And then it was headed as straight as a bee to the North, for 
 
 the Sioux's bloody band. 
 A mile further on it turned slight to the right the Captain 
 
 sprang quick to the ground, 
 For there in the path was a sun-bonnet bright he kissed it, 
 
 then turning around 
 
 We saw the tears glitter and felt kind o' moist around our 
 
 own hardened eyes, 
 Then stood with bowed heads for a moment while each 
 
 breathed a silent prayer up to the skies. 
 'Twas the work of a moment to tighten our girths, cut loose 
 
 the throat-latch and curb-chain, 
 Then strike for the ford fifty good miles away across the 
 
 wide stretch of the plain. 
 
 "To the ford!" cried the father, and his rowel shot swift as a 
 
 star in the flank of his black. 
 "To the ford! There is no other place they can cross. To the 
 
 ford! See the course of the track! 
 Two hours the start! Great God give us speed," as the black 
 
 went away like the wind. 
 "Too fast!" I called out, but he never did heed: already he'd 
 
 left us behind. 
 
 "Now, Corporal," I said, "we will test your grey's grit; 'tis 
 a ride that the stoutest might shun."
 
 208 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 And I braced myself firm, held steady the bit, with Tennessee 
 
 struggling to run, 
 But I gave not his head, for well did I know not a horse in 
 
 the world could stand 
 Fifty miles of a race at a heart-killing pace in the alkali dust 
 
 of that land. 
 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on, 
 
 Out in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 No word did we speak, no sound did we heed 
 But the low, muffled beat of our galloping steed. 
 The grey, circling dust rose in pillars and spread 
 Like the ghost of a cloud in the moonlight o'erhead; 
 And the sage-bush was plated with white in the light 
 As we raced, like a running team, into the night. 
 
 Beyond us, the peak of a towering cone, 
 Fifty good miles away, on the broad Yellowstone, 
 Was our snow-covered goal, in the moon-blazoned air, 
 And we headed full straight for the ford that was there. 
 Our horses pulled hard on the bit, for the dash 
 Was a frolic to them in the hoof-beating crash, 
 And the quick, playful snort, as onward we glide, 
 From their nostrils keep time to the lengthening stride. 
 The miles spin behind us, with bound upon bound 
 Two shadows fly on like a twin-headed hound. 
 My roan tossed the fleckings of foam in a ring, 
 As an eagle the snow flake that lights on his wing, 
 And with nose to his knees and his ears laid back 
 He swept a clean path through the dust-covered track, 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on 
 Ten miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 But onward we went, head lowered, and bent 
 To the stride like an arrow from ashen bow sent.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE, 209 
 
 My horse was now wet to the mane with sweat 
 
 And the grey, where the dust and the moisture had met, 
 
 Was white as the palfrey Godiva rode down 
 
 Through the dead silent street of Coventry town. 
 
 His breath comes shorter and quicker a wheeze, 
 
 And I note that his stride is not true at the knees. 
 
 I felt of my roan, brought him down to a pace, 
 
 For the speed was terriffic, the gait 'twas a race! 
 
 I stood in my stirrups and cut loose the cord 
 
 Of the cantle strap down went the full useless load! 
 
 I threw off my saber and cavalry cloak, 
 
 My rain-coat and blanket, and, bending, I spoke: 
 
 "Steady, good Tennessee! Steady and true, 
 
 There's a race yet ahead, old fellow, for you. 
 
 Just swing this long gallop for ten miles or more, 
 
 We are frolicking now, but we'll show them before 
 
 We halt in the shadow of yon mount by the flood 
 
 The never-die spirit of Tennessee blood." 
 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on 
 Twenty miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 But see! now he pricks up his ears as we rush, 
 
 And shies with a bound to the right from the brush. 
 
 A glance, and pitifully struggling with pain 
 
 The Captain's black horse is stretched out on the plain 
 
 And I see as I pass, with a pull on the bit, 
 
 The scarlet blood gush from his deep nostril-pit. 
 
 To the Corporal I said; "Do you know what we passed?" 
 
 He nodded "I knew he was going too fast. 
 
 The black was dead game, but too fat and rank 
 
 To run twenty miles with a steel in his flank. 
 
 Poor fellow! But where can his rider now be?" 
 
 "Ahead, and on foot just ahead, do you see?" 
 
 As a speck in the distance, a spot in the grey 
 
 Then a tall, lithe figure plodding away,
 
 210 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 He stops at the sound of our galloping hoof. 
 We draw curb a moment 'neath the silvery roof 
 That rolls o'er our heads as our steeds made a launch, 
 Planting stiff knees in sand, thrown back on their haunch. 
 "What news?" "Go on, and check not your rein," 
 Said the father, as quickly he stooped on the plain. 
 Then rising "From the track we're an hour behind. 
 For the love of your homes speed on like the wind! 
 But halt! Corporal, give me that good gallant grey"- 
 A moment, and then we were speeding away 
 Speeding away through the low, creeping light, 
 Through the shade and the shadow, the blare and the blight 
 Of the heat wave that clung to the breath of the night 
 Speeding away through the leg-wearying sand, 
 Through the hoof-stinging flint of that alkali land 
 With steel in our hearts and steel in our hand, 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on 
 Thirty miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 Not a word: as we rushed adown a long slope 
 We bounded as free as the wild antelope. 
 A coyote howls out from a neighboring hill, 
 An owl hoots answer, and then all is still. 
 A rise in the range of our trail to the right 
 And our cloud-propping goal flashes bold on our sight, 
 "Thank God!" cries the Captain, "their powers now fail. 
 They have come to a trot see the tracks in the trail!" 
 And crazed with the grief that a father can feel 
 He sends the steel home with a desperate heel. 
 But I mark the short breaths of the grey as he goes, 
 And his staggering gait as the dust upward 'rose. 
 "Draw your rein!" to the Captain I shouted aloud; 
 "Your horse will choke down in this dust-stifling cloud. 
 We have come many miles without water or rest 
 Draw rein just a moment " Down on his breast,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 211 
 
 With a sickening wheeze from his steam-heaving chest, 
 He staggers reels heaves and over he sinks, 
 While the blood bubbles up from its carmiel brinks. 
 "Go on, Sergeant on!" as he leaps to be free 
 "My child and her life rest with old Tennessee!" 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on 
 Alone in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 For the first time now I felt nervous with dread, 
 
 Even Tennessee galloped less bravely ahead. 
 
 Each bush seemed an Indian as big as a horse, 
 
 Each shadow the ghost of another, across 
 
 Our path slipping on in the dim, misty light 
 
 To warn those ahead to be ready for fight. 
 
 I spoke to brave Tennessee, stroked his wet crest, 
 
 Talked of the home where we both used to rest 
 
 The meadows, where shone the calm, blue sky above, 
 
 And the blue grass below in the land of our love 
 
 Of the old mare, perchance nodding now in her stall, 
 
 And the father and mother ah! dearest of all. 
 
 And I smile even now as I think of the song 
 
 I sang out aloud as we staggered along; 
 
 And Tennessee braced himself up at the sound, 
 
 For I felt his feet strike a bit steadier the ground, 
 
 And it nerved even me not a moment too soon, 
 
 For there, standing there in the light of the moon, 
 
 Almost in our pathway how quickly it rose ! 
 
 Then, the twang of a bow under Tennessee's nose, 
 
 Just as the horse on his haunches arose, 
 
 And the deadly barbed arrow, intended for me, 
 
 With a rattlesnake hiss struck brave Tennessee 
 
 Just under the throat, near the big throbbing vein, 
 
 And came out above, in his sweat-covered mane. 
 
 But he drew not another, for quick through his head 
 
 My Colt sent a cone of government lead
 
 212 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 And Uncle Sam's darling in the moonlight lay dead! 
 
 A moment's convulsion on his knees sank my roan 
 
 Down! and my heart sank, too, with his groan, 
 
 But, struggling he 'rose with the staggering pain 
 
 As I spoke, and came to his senses again, 
 
 Then plunged reeled plunged Great God, would he fall 
 
 With that flint in his throat? In vain was my call! 
 
 How I pitied him, struggling, the will 'gainst the flesh! 
 
 But I thought of the Lily and urged him afresh, 
 
 And I plunged both my spurs in his death-shaking sides 
 
 (He never had felt them before in his rides), 
 
 For he bounded away with the bit in his teeth 
 
 And the frenzy of death in his hoof beats beneath. 
 
 And he ran as if he knew his last race was run 
 
 Was there ever a grander one under the sun? 
 
 A spurt on the trail, a maiden's low cry, 
 
 Half strangled and then we were thundering by. 
 
 Useless my pistol! I threw it away, 
 
 Too close was the Lily too deadly the fray! 
 
 A spring and a grapple! A hand to hand strife 
 
 A blow here's the scar from his murderous knife 
 
 The next and my grandfather's *King Mountain made 
 
 A path through his heart to his left shoulder blade. 
 
 A maid on the sand and she held in her lap 
 
 Not my head but that of a far nobler chap. 
 
 A maid on the sand and her tears fall free 
 
 On the quivering muzzle of brave Tennessee, 
 
 While his poor, pleading eyes seemed to linger above 
 
 To tell her he galloped that gallop for love. 
 
 That's all! When I waked from a two hours' swoon 
 (Where I dreamed a sweet Lily grew by a lagoon 
 And kissed me and bound with her leaflets my wound)
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 The Captain was there with fifty picked men, 
 And they swore such a ride they would ne'er see again! 
 And the Captain broke down, and the Lily and me, 
 And we all went to camp all but old Tennessee. 
 He sleeps by the shore 
 
 Where the swift waters roar, 
 The mountain his monument 
 
 Till time is no more, 
 And beneath this is carved where a boulder hangs o'er: 
 
 HERE LIES TENNESSEE, 
 
 of the 
 SEVENTH CAVALRY. 
 
 the 
 same was a horse, 
 
 yet 
 
 HE GALLOPED ACROSS 
 The Plain 
 To Fame. 
 Of Three, He Alone 
 
 had 
 The Blood and the Bone 
 
 TO RUN 
 
 Fifty Miles to the Yellowstone. 
 To Save a Life He Gave His Own. 
 
 And now I have told you the story, lad, 
 Except well, I soon came home, 
 
 For I had no mount that was any account 
 And I had no heart to roam. 
 
 But after a while I did go back and 
 
 I brought her home with me 
 The Lily of Fort Custer and she blooms in Tennessee. 
 
 213 
 
 *A short, heavy knife made from the sword of his grand-
 
 2 i4 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 sire used at the battle of King's Mountain. The writer has 
 often seen it. 
 
 H-J-H 
 TRUTH IN BEAUTY. 
 
 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" that is all 
 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
 Keats Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
 
 (To the gifted organist, Mrs. William A. King, of Marion, 
 Ala.) 
 
 O OOTHED is my spirit when you touch the keys, 
 O And, like a cloud, my soul floats far away; 
 My throbbing fancies throng as dreaming bees 
 
 To suck the flowers that spring up when you play 
 O, that I thus at last might sip and pass 'mid sweets away! 
 
 Whence comes such rapturous pain from simple bars, 
 
 Such tender-hurting, joy-bewidow'd sweet? 
 Such pouring glory cataract of stars 
 
 Bubbles of beauty, bursting at my feet, 
 
 Or floating into dreamland streams where Fay and Fancy 
 meet? 
 
 The rain-bow gleams along that splendid arch 
 
 Where from your fingers fall the quiv'ring drops. 
 And now, sunset; and now the misty march 
 
 Of timbrel-twinkling planets, o'er the tops 
 Of organ-chords, aeolian-peaked, with star-emblazoned stops. 
 
 Above the earth, above the wheeling flight 
 
 Of mute, yet clearest pealing minstrelsy 
 
 One glimpse of that which made creation bright, 
 One glimpse of first love's sun of ecstasy
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 215 
 
 Then down to earth where musick'd streams purl with peb 
 bled symphony. 
 O, thus to live thus ever, ever live, 
 
 Wedded to Art, with handmaid Hope at side, 
 Crushing her lips with lips that dare to give 
 
 The winter tempest for the summer tide 
 For sweetest of all weddings yet is that where Art is bride. 
 
 O, thus to love, forever, ever love, 
 
 Changeless in beauty and star-lived in grace. 
 To hear but the rustle of her robes above 
 
 To catch the star-beams from her fountained face 
 For dearer is Art's finger-kiss than Passion's whole embrace! 
 
 O Faith, O Hope the poet and his sky 
 
 O Joy, O Death the bondman and the freed 
 O Love, you, too, must bow beneath that eye 
 
 Where naught of earth, or earthy, hath a breed 
 For infant Truth a greater hero is than gray-haired Deed. 
 
 Truth which comes in Beauty, as to-night 
 
 Comes this sweet Truth in simple harmony 
 
 Calming the quick waves of my soul's affright, 
 
 And from the depths of an unsounded sea, 
 
 Starting this broken wave above a sea of melody. 
 
 UNDER THE PINES. 
 
 T T NDER the pines with her hair in a tangle, 
 
 LJ The skies in her eyes and the stars beaming out, 
 
 One rosy hand clasping the green boughs above her, 
 
 One daintily tossing the flowers about, 
 The Graces peep out from the depths of her dimples, 
 
 The Naiads are born where her eye-glances stray
 
 2l6 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Under the pines, though the long years have vanished, 
 Under the pines she is standing to-day! 
 
 Under the pines! ah, forever and ever 
 
 The Nymphs build their booths and the Naiads their 
 
 cave, 
 And there 'neath the bowers she is tossing her flowers 
 
 For Time cannot take back the picture he gave! 
 O, life with your strife, O, death with your darkness, 
 
 Ye have taken the tinsel and left me the gold! 
 For deep in my heart where the evergreens hide her, 
 
 Still tossing her flowers she stands as of old. 
 
 THE TENNESSEEAN TO THE FLAG. 
 
 (A poem read at the opening of the United States 
 arsenal at Columbia, Tenn.) 
 
 WE followed you first in the days of old, 
 For you stood for the rights of men, 
 And our pioneer soldiers followed your fold 
 
 For they fought for the Union then; 
 They held you aloft in the fiery flame, 
 
 'Mid the shriek of the British shell, 
 And planted you on the heights of fame 
 That flag they loved so well! 
 
 We followed you first in the days of old, 
 
 When our Jackson went to the fray, 
 And the Tennessee soldiers lay in the cold 
 
 Of that long, dread winter day. 
 They lay in the cold, but you floated o'er, 
 
 And the silence was deep as the grave
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 Till their long-barreled rifles spoke with a roar 
 For the flag they fought to save. 
 
 We followed you first in the days of old, 
 
 When our Polk roused the Mexican ire, 
 And we gathered an empire into the fold 
 
 To warm it with Liberty's fire. 
 'Twas our own gallant Campbell who led the band, 
 
 The first o'er the Mexican height, 
 And yon flag of our Union went in his hand 
 
 Through the red-hot fire of the fight. 
 
 We've followed you oft in the days of old 
 
 And we'll follow you oft again ! 
 Shall the pulse of the son grow sluggish and cold 
 
 Where the sire's blood flowed like the rain? 
 Shall the deeds of the past, by Error bewail'd, 
 
 Be lost in the passion's dark flow, 
 And the flag of our country by brothers be trailed 
 
 When it never has trailed to the foe? 
 
 No! We'll follow you now, proud flag of the free, 
 
 Should the foe with his banners e'er come 
 No need for a bugle to call us to thee, 
 
 Our hearts make the beat of our drum! 
 With the spirit of Jackson to guide from above, 
 
 And the mem'ry of Crockett to aid us, 
 We'll rally once more to the banner we love 
 
 The banner our forefathers made us! 
 
 Then wave, proud flag of our Union, 
 Wave and unroll your bright bars; 
 For never was sunshine brighter, 
 And never the sweet air lighter 
 Than that now circling your stars.
 
 218 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Then float, proud flag of our Union, 
 Float o'er this land of the free; 
 For ne'er was love any truer, 
 And ne'er was sentiment purer 
 Than the love of our people for thee. 
 
 TO BURNS. 
 
 THERE is no death for genius, for it leaps, 
 Fount-like, from source to limpid depths again. 
 There is no death for genius, for it sleeps 
 
 To wake refreshed in each new life's sweet pain. 
 O, Burns, how rich and sweet thy stream of song, 
 
 Pouring from mountain dale and hawthorn glen, 
 Bright as the channel where Ayr flashed along, 
 
 Deep as the sea beyond Ben Lomond's ken. 
 Bubbling, it bursts out like thy mountain springs, 
 
 Out from the cool depths of great nature's mart, 
 Slaking the fevered thirst our life toil brings, 
 
 Reflecting all the star-domes of our heart. 
 Here at thy fount, O, let me drink and know 
 
 That God still reigns and man is king below. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE PINES. 
 
 FAR away, like fairy bugles, when the shades of night 
 are on, 
 Comes again the memory-music of my childhood days agone, 
 
 agone, 
 Comes again the sheen of hillside where the long-leaf needles 
 
 lay, 
 
 And the spots of softened sunshine flecking through the lat 
 ticed way,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 219 
 
 Come again the distant echoes of my playmates from their 
 
 shrines, 
 
 And they come with elfin music, with the music of the pines, 
 With the misty, memory-music of the band among the pines. 
 
 Once again their half-heard laughter floats from out the past 
 
 to rise 
 
 As an echo from hereafter in that playground 'mid the skies; 
 Once again the resinous odors through my dreaming senses 
 
 spread 
 As the frankincense from flowers that we buried with our 
 
 dead, 
 
 And I stop my work to listen to the bells in memory's mines, 
 Tinkling on the sweling hillside to the music of the pines, 
 To the half-heard, half-dreamt music of the band among 
 
 the pines. 
 
 Now I see the yellow sunlight sifted through the sieve of 
 
 spears, 
 
 And I hear the zephyr lullabies of long forgotten years. 
 How the band above me thunders as the swaying tree tops 
 
 shake ! 
 
 And now it falls as calmly sweet as starlight on a lake. 
 And as the passing pinions sweep above in lilting lines, 
 I almost see the angels in that band among the pines, 
 See the angels as they sing and swing amid the swaying pines. 
 
 O, how often in the glory of the days forever gone, 
 I have drunk the crooning story of that mimic Alpine horn. 
 There's a solace in its soughing that no earthly music brings, 
 There's a cadence in its wooing never heard in court of kings, 
 There's a rhythm in the rustle of its low enchanting lines, 
 For heaven's sweetest zephyrs made the music of the pines, 
 Swept the lyre of lyric needles in that band among the pines.
 
 220 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 I have heard the martial music of a conquering army come 
 With the blare of boastful bugle and the thunder of the drum. 
 I have mused upon the measures of a sweet Italian band 
 Till my reeling spirit wandered as a bird in Edenland; 
 But there is no earthly music e'er conceived in mortal minds 
 Like the music of my childhood in the band among the pines, 
 Like the music that I ne'er shall hear again from out the 
 pines. 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 HEART of the sunset sky- 
 Sleeping so quietly, 
 
 Flushed with the pinkness of sleep and of rest. 
 Heart of the sleeping sky 
 Throbbing with ecstasy 
 Pulsing the pink through the breast of the west. 
 
 Soul of the dying sky 
 
 Dying so quietly, 
 Melting and merging in shadows of night. 
 
 Soul of the dying sky, 
 
 Dying yet gloriously, 
 Living again in thy life and thy light. 
 
 H-H-" 
 HOW OLD WASH SOLD THE FILLY. 
 
 OLD WASH paced into my study the other day the 
 most woe-begone darky in Tennessee. There was a 
 halt in his walk, a creak in his step and a crick in his neck. 
 "Boss," he said, as I motioned him to sit down on the 
 black mohair stool in the corner till I finished writing, "de 
 ole man bin mighty mizrified fur er week er mo'. Hes you 
 got ennything layin' 'round loose dat would hep 'im to git er 
 move on hissef? Enny kind er "
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 22 1 
 
 The rest of the sentence was cut off by yelps and snarls, 
 mingled with many imprecations, and rapid rising from the 
 stool on the part of him who a few minutes before could 
 scarcely walk. I had forgotten to tell the old man the stool 
 was already occupied by my ill-natured black-and-tan terrier, 
 who thought she had a preempted right to that particular 
 piece of furniture. 
 
 "I'm afraid that's all I've got lying around loose to-day, 
 Wash," I said, as the old man stood rubbing the seat of his 
 trousers and eyeing with withering contempt the spluttering 
 and sneezing dog who was appealing to me for sympathy. 
 "What can I do for you?" I asked, as I laid aside my work 
 at the chance of hearing some of his drollery. 
 
 For answer the old man slowly ran his hand into the 
 tail pocket of his threadbare Prince Albert and drew forth 
 a crumpled paper. 
 
 "Does you recognize dis?" he said, as he drew out a 
 paper. 
 
 "Oh, yes," I said; "that's the horse paper of December, 
 1892." 
 
 "Den jes read at dis place," he said, pointing at a para 
 graph with the air of a lawyer who is about to entice a wit 
 ness into a trap he had set for him. I read it aloud. It 
 was the closing paragraph of my editorial on the situation 
 for 1892: 
 
 "On the whole, though the season of 1892 has not been 
 as promising as it should have been, owing to several bad 
 failures, there is now no doubt that we have passed 
 through the worst of the hard times and may now con 
 fidently expect to see better times for next year. A good 
 time to stay in a business is when others are going out." 
 
 "Well, what about it?" I asked. 
 
 "O, nuffin'," said the old man, a little ironically, I 
 thought. "Nuffin' t'all, 'cept dat little verse ob poetry jes' 
 ruined me, dat's all!"
 
 i> 2 2 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 "Why, how's that?" I asked in astonishment. 
 
 "Wai, sah," said the old man, "hits jes' dis way: Does 
 you kno' my Red Pilot filly? Ten pacin' crosses widout 
 er single break! Fust dam by " 
 
 "Never mind," I cried for I hated to hear him start 
 on an endless pedigree "what about her? I know all about 
 her, go on." 
 
 The old man looked sorrowfully into the fire. 
 
 "She'd er bin sumbudy els's 'cept fur dat profercy. 
 She'd er bin sumbudy els's darlin' but fur de brilliant profit 
 dat knowed more den de Almighty about whut de naixt year 
 was gwinter bring forth! But fur readin' dat an' bleevin' 
 it," he said, "I'd er sold dat filly wid her ten pacin' crosses 
 fur three hundred dollars thirty dollars er cross! Grate 
 heaben, what er fool I wus! I hed dat offered fur her, but 
 whut did I do when I read dat? Sot back an' axed five 
 hundred dollars fur her! Sold my hog meat ter buy her 
 cohn an' oats an' wait fur de millenneum ob ateen-ninety- 
 three ter cum dat he hoss-profet sed wus comin'!" 
 
 "And did it come?" I asked. The old man looked at 
 me almost pitifully. Instead of replying he drew out an 
 other paper. This was dated December, 1893, and the para 
 graph he had singled out was also mine: 
 
 "Taken as a whole this has been the worst year for the 
 sale of harness horses that has been known for a long time. 
 It seems the boom has collapsed, but it is also plain that 
 every fictitious element has been eliminated and next 
 year will see the business once more on a solid foundation. 
 Don't sell your pacers now you will be sorry." 
 
 "An' I was sorry, sah; sorry I didn't sell, too," he said. 
 "O, ef er certain hoss profet I kno'," he said, looking at me 
 innocently, "hed libbed in de time ob Noah, dey wouldn't 
 er had no use fur Jeremiah, Izear an' de whale dat swallered 
 Joner. Relyin' on dat blessed promis," he said, "I most 
 'pintedly "fused one hundred an' fifty dollars fur dat filly,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 223 
 
 sot back on my dignerty, an' waited fur de star to rise in 
 de east. An' did it cum ter pass? No, sah, 'sted ob dat 
 de filly went to grass an' when dat gib out she cum mighty 
 nigh goin' to de bone yard. But long t'wards de winter ob 
 dat rocky year, er feller cum erlong an' sed he'd gib me fifty 
 dollers fur her ruther den see her starve. So de naixt day 
 I put de halter on 'er an' foch* 'er in to turn 'er over to de 
 buyer. But when I got to town I foun' my hoss paper 
 in de postoffis' an' de wurds ob de profet wus in it clear es er 
 crystal bell. Heah it am," he said, as he thrust another 
 paper at me. I blushed slightly as I read: 
 
 "The season of 1894 has gone, and though it has been 
 full of trials and tribulations, low prices, hard times, finan 
 cial panics, and bursted banks, the recent sale of horses in 
 Ohio, New York and other states confirm the now almost 
 universal belief that the year 1895 will find the horse business 
 once more on hand and doing better than ever. This is 
 positively affirmed by the fact that many mushroom breed 
 ers have sold out and quit. The supply is necessarily nearly 
 exhausted, especially for pacers, and he who can hold till 
 1895 will reap a fortune." 
 
 "Dat settled it wid me," said the old man. "I tuck 
 de filly back home, stopped de chillun frum skule, sold de 
 'possum dog, lied erbout my taxes, shet off de missionery 
 fund fer de church, closed down on de preacher, an' spent 
 de money in forty cent oats an' fifty cent cohn to stuff hit 
 erway in dat filly fur de cumin' ob de angel! But he passed 
 my house by. You kno' what dis year has bin," said he. 
 "Ef de yudder years hes bin rocky, dis year hes bin ashy. 
 Ef de yudder years hes bin bottomless, dis one hes bin 
 volcanic jes' seem to hev got down es low es it cud an' 
 den throwed up whut it cudn't reach! Dey say us in de hoss 
 bizness am sufferin' fur de sins ob our daddies; ef dis am 
 so de origernal daddy ob de hoss bizness must er slid outer 
 Sodam an' Termorrow, jes' befo' de yearth quake! Dey say
 
 224 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 we must suffer to de third an' de forth generashun, but hit 
 'pears to me de bizness dun passed through forty crosses ob 
 tribelashun already! 
 
 "By March she hed et me out ob ebrything but er little 
 Jersey bull an' er hatrack, an' I cudn't git ten dollers fur 
 dat filly wid her ten pacin' crosses! By June I hed offered 
 her ter er farmer ef he'd keep us in buttermilk twell de black 
 berries cum. 'No, siree,' he say, 'I'm feedin' my butter 
 milk to hogs, an' I kno' I kin sell dem!' When my darter 
 got married, I tried to gib de filly to 'er fur er bridle pres 
 ent; but she lowed ef she hed to hev ennything in de pacin' 
 line fur er bridle gift she'd take er rockin' cheer an' er 
 cradle, an' at last when I dun clean gib up, heah cum de 
 cunstable to levy on sumpin' fur de oats I bought an cudn't 
 pay fur at de grocers, an' I say to myself, Thang goodness, 
 she'll go now, sho'!' but she didn't," said the old man as he 
 wiped a tear, "he found out I had de little Jersey bull dat 
 weighed two hundred pouns', wurf two cents er poun', left, 
 an' by de gable ob de temple ef he didn't take dat little bull 
 an' lef me dat pacin' filly in de stall!" 
 
 Here the old man's tears were running freely as he 
 brought down his fist and exclaimed: "Dat's my luck 
 dat's Ole Wash's luck all ober! Why, boss, ef I'd buy er 
 carload ob ice in Augus' an ship it to Hades dey'd cum 
 er big freeze down dar de night befo' it got dar, an' dey 
 wouldn't be no demand fur it de naixt day! O, I b'leeves 
 in hoss-profets," he said, ironically, 'an' ain't I jes' waitin' 
 fur de next paper to tell me to hold on to dat filly endurin' 
 ateen-ninety-next-century! I'll b'leeve " 
 
 But the old man never got any farther; he was interrupted 
 by a great commotion in the back yard. He went out of 
 the door like a two-year-old, but soon came prancing back 
 like Strathberry in hobbles. 
 
 "Thang goodness!" he said, "I've sold 'er! I've sold
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 225 
 
 "To whom?" I asked, surprised now, myself. 
 
 "To de Luisville an' Nashville railroad," he said "ten 
 pacin' crosses at fifty dollars a cross! You see, boss," he 
 said, breathlessly, "de ole 'oman wus ridin' her to mill jes' 
 now, an' she got to jawin' wid ernudder 'oman jes' er little 
 too long to miss er frate train dat cum erlong, an' dat orter 
 stopped 'twell she got through talkin', an' hit killed de filly 
 an' broke de old 'oman's jaw, an' de doctah say she can't 
 talk no mo' twell next Christmas! Thang Gawd fur two 
 sech blessins! de rightus am nurver fursaken!" And he 
 rushed out to find a lawyer, but not until he had drawn off 
 the following quaint account which he asked me to send to 
 the company: 
 
 L. & N. R. R Dr. 
 
 To Ole Wash. 
 Nov. i, 1895. 
 
 To breakin' Dinah's jaw $000.05 
 
 To sale of ten pacin' crosses at $50 a cross 500.00 
 
 N. B.-Gentlemen: $5 - OS 
 
 Pay fur de crosses an' I'll knock off fur de jaw. 
 
 OLE WASH. 
 
 And as he pocketed his money he chuckled and re 
 marked to me: "I tell you, boss, dey ain't nuffin lak crossin' 
 our fillies on a locomotive to improve de breed in dis state." 
 
 It took a lawsuit but he sold her! 
 
 WORK THROUGH IT ALL. 
 
 HOPE, tho' misfortune o'ertake you, 
 Smile, tho' you go to the wall, 
 Bend to the blast that would break you, 
 But work, aye, work through it all.
 
 , 2 f, SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 Weep, when the cloud of your sorrow 
 Comes with its mist and its pall, 
 
 But tears make your rainbow to-morrow 
 If you work as you weep through it all. 
 
 Give, for you grow with the giving, 
 Live, but with love at your call, 
 
 Be brave, be a man in your living, 
 And work as a man through it all. 
 
 Look up, as the weaver of laces, 
 
 Your pattern hung high on the wall, 
 
 Your soul on the beauty it traces, 
 Your hands busy working withal. 
 
 O. 
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION. 
 
 I'M sick an 'tired an' lonely, 
 
 An' I'd give the worl', if only 
 I could see the ole plantation where I played so long ago. 
 
 See the willers' swishin', swishin' 
 
 In the creek jes' right for fishin' 
 Hear the tinkle of the cow-bell in the medder jes' below, 
 
 An' to lay there, blinkin', blinkin', 
 
 In the hazy sun, an' thinkin' 
 
 Of the batty-cakes fur supper, with the berries an' the cream, 
 Of the batty-cakes an' berries that would vanish like a dream. 
 
 O, I'm sick an' tired an' lonely 
 
 An' I'd give a hoss if only 
 I could drink ergin the buttermilk I drunk so long ago. 
 
 In the dairy, cool an' curlin' 
 
 With the water 'round it purlin' 
 An' the white-wash walls a-shinin' in a microbe-killin' glow,
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 227 
 
 Jes' to drink there, sorter dreamy, 
 Eatin' hoe-cake, crisp an' creamy, 
 
 With the smell of fryin' batty-cakes upon the evenin' air 
 Fryin' batty-cakes an' bakin' floatin' on the evenin' air. 
 
 O, I'm sick an' tired an' lonely, 
 But I'd walk a state if only 
 
 I could walk in on the ole folks that I loved so long ago, 
 On the mother, knittin', knittin', 
 An' the father smokin', sittin' 
 
 Where the sun-beams loved to flicker an' the moon-beams 
 loved to flow, 
 
 Jes' to set there, noddin', winkin', 
 Full of batty-cakes an' thinkin' 
 'Bout time to kiss 'em good-night now, an' lay me down to 
 
 sleep 
 
 Kiss 'em good-night now forever an' then lay me down to 
 sleep. 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 OUT from the meadow, bathed in bright 
 Bob Bob White! 
 An answer, back from the cool copse-height 
 
 Bob White! 
 
 The humdrum beetle drones his horn, 
 The cradling breezes lull the corn, 
 But still that truant call goes on 
 
 Bob Bob White! 
 And back with keen Xantippe scorn 
 
 Bob White! ; 
 
 Out from the meadow's ling'ring light 
 
 Bob Bob White! 
 An echo, back from the dark hill's height 
 
 Bob White!
 
 228 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 The drowsy night-lids droop adown, 
 With ribbon'd rays her ringlets bound 
 And still there echoeth 'round and 'round 
 
 Bob Bob White! 
 And still form the hill that haughty sound 
 
 Bob White! 
 
 Faintly now from the copse-hill's height 
 
 Bob Bob White! 
 And fainter yet, 'mid the soft twilight 
 
 Bob White! 
 
 Was that the chirruping sound of a kiss, 
 The star-beam's dream of a wedded bliss, 
 Or the faintest kind of a call like this 
 
 Thy Bob White! 
 And the softest kind of an answer 'tis: 
 
 Quite right! 
 
 HOW OLE WASH CAPTURED A GUN. 
 
 JENNIE, the famous dun mule of Wilson county, Kan 
 sas, is dead. Jennie was so old that men had long 
 since quit guessing on her age. She was gray over the eyes 
 when Jim Johnson drove her into Wilson county, and that 
 occurred in 1871. She bore on her hip the United States 
 army brand, and popular tradition had it that she participated 
 in the Mexican war." 
 
 When old Wash saw the above, he was very much ex 
 ercised and wanted to go over to Kansas to see about it. 
 
 "Why, suh," he said "dat's de same dun mule I wus 
 plowin' on a rocky hillside up at Double Branches in de fall 
 of a'teen sixty-two, when Wilson's raiders cum through Ten 
 nessee an' tuk me an' dat mule bofe erlong an' made sojers 
 outen us. Hit's jes lak de paper sed I knowed ebry ha'r
 
 FROM TENNESSEE 229 
 
 on her an' she wus trottin' bred frum her head-end to her 
 lightnin' end, bein' by a Spanish jack outen a mare by a son 
 of imported Messenger. She wus drapped de fall Jeems K. 
 Poke wus 'lected preserdent, an' she went thru de Mexerken 
 war, jes lak de paper say. Ef dey'll only dig her up an' see 
 ef she's got a scar on her lef hin' heel dey won't be no doubt 
 ob it at all. She got dat scar by kickin' a solid shot frum a 
 forty-pounder dat deMexerkens had fired at our men, back in 
 to de Mexekin line, an' killin' er whole regiment ob Mexekins 
 jes' in de act ob sayin' dey ebenin' prayer! Fur de Lord 
 sake, boss, hit's de truth! I w'udn't lie 'bout er mule! An' 
 I jes lak ter see her onc't mo' fur she wus de cause ob my 
 bein' so inderpendent terday." 
 
 "How was that?"" I asked. "I thought you said Wil 
 son's raiders got you both." 
 
 "So dey did, so dey did," he said, "an* dat's de pint I'm 
 arter. You see, dey tuck us bofe an' made sojers outen us. 
 Dey put de dun mule to pullin' cannons an' put me to diggin' 
 ditches, wid er whole rigerment ob yudder niggers, an' throw- 
 in' up breastworks an' tunnelin' hills 'round Nashvul. I 
 swear to you, suh, ef enny body thinks sojernin' am play, jes' 
 let 'em jine de army de naixt scrap Unk Sam gits into. Befo' 
 ninety days am out dey'll yearn fer white-winged peace wus- 
 ser den de animules shet up in de ark yearned fur de flutter 
 ob de dove's wing! 
 
 "But wusser times wus comin'! An' when Hood's 
 army cum in de Yankees gin us guns an' tole us we had ter 
 fight or be cotch an' hung ter telegraf postes! Says I to de 
 offercer: 
 
 " 'Good Lord, Marse Yankee, I don't wanter shoot at 
 no white folks! 'Spose I happen to hit Ole Marster, or one 
 of Mister Forrest's men, whut dem white folks gwi' do ter 
 dis nigger ef dey ketch 'im? Nigger don't kno' nuffin' 'bout 
 huntin' enny thing but possums lemme do de diggin'. Sez 
 I, 'I'd ruther dig er hole ter Chiny fur you dan ter face dem
 
 230 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 cannons ob Mister Forrest's men wid Marse John Morton er 
 pullin' ob de trigger!' 
 
 "But dat jes made de offercer mad wid me, an' he tole 
 me ef we didn't go an' shoot dey'd hang us fur disserters. I 
 tell you, boss, de nigger whut wus captured an' pressed in 
 ter dat war wus sho' in er tight place. Ef he didn't fight, de 
 Yankees hung 'im an' ef he did fight de Johnnies shot 'im! 
 Gawd, I don't want no mo' ob it! Dey ain't gwi' git me in 
 no war wid Spain! 
 
 "Wai, suh, dey saunt me out to de frunt soon es Gineral 
 Hood got posted on de hills souf ob Nashvul.an'dey marched 
 'us all out in de line ter take er big gun on er hill. I 
 swear to you, boss, ef you ain't nurver been marched up ter 
 take er big gun an' hit loaded an' pinted at you, you don't 
 kno' whut it am to hab de mos' miserbul, unkomplementry 
 feelin's in dis wurl chasing each yudder up an' down yo' 
 back-bone. Ebry step I tuk it 'peared lak my feet jes' stuck 
 to de yearth, an' I wus so skeered de cold sweat stood in 
 beads all ober my gun-barrel! Ebry bone in my body got 
 stiff es er stick 'cept my backbone, an' dat jes' seem ter 
 wanter curl up an' lay down on the sunny side ob sumpin' an' 
 go to sleep. 
 
 "When we fus started we wus two miles frum dat gun, 
 an' hit didn't seem to be much bigger'n a locus' tree, an' de 
 hole in it 'bout big ernuff fur er rabbit ter run in. But befo' 
 we marched fifty yards, boss, dat gun wus es big es de bigges' 
 poplar in de woods, wid er hole in it big ernuff fur er she 
 ba'r an' her cubs ter crawl in, an' hit wus p'inted straight at 
 my head jes' picked me out an' nobody else! I stood it 
 fer er leetle while, an' when de offercers wan't lookin' I 
 drapped out ob de ranks an' fell in ergin 'way down to de 
 lef, an' t'inks I: 'You ain't p'intin' at me now, sho'!' but, 
 bless yo' soul, when I look up ergin dar it wus p'inting 'at 
 me an' nobody else! I nurver heurd ob er gun singlin' out 
 one nigger in er thousan' befo' but dat's whut dat gun wus 
 doin'f
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 231 
 
 "We marched on er leetle furder,till I seed de ball startin' 
 outen it. I seed de fiah flash an' de ball start out jes' es 
 plain es I see de sun in heaben dis minnit! At fust hit wan't 
 bigger den de moon, but befo' it got half-way cross dat val 
 ley it wus big es de sun, an' es it cum rollin' on straight fur 
 me, fo' de Lord, boss, it got bigger an' bigger, till it looked 
 lak ernudder wurl rollin' on, black es de pit ob doom an' 
 spitten' out fiah an' brimstone, an' smoke an' saltpeter, an' 
 Gord-knows-whut, an' rolling, an' er-r-o-l-l-lin', an' er-r-o-1- 
 1-i-n' es straight for me es ef I wus de onlies' nigger in de 
 whole rigiment! Hits de truf ef I eber tole hit! 
 
 "Jes' den de offercer he holler out, 'Charge!' an' I charged 
 sho' nuff dat's whut I'd bin wantin' to do eber sence I 
 started. I charged fur er rock fence lak er groun' squir'l. 
 But when I peeped ober dat fence dar cum dat ball straight 
 fur me ergin, er rollin' an' er r-o-l-l-lin' an er r-o-1- 
 l-i-n! I got up from dar an' lit out roun' Marse 
 John Overton's brick smoke-house, an' den I peeped frum 
 'roun' de cornder ob dat house, an' I hope I may go in 
 de trottin' hoss bizness jes' on de ebe ob de naixt Clevelan' 
 misrepresentashum, an' see my thousan' dollar colts go 
 beggin' fur coon skins, ef dat ball wasn't headed straight 
 fur dat smoke-house jes' lak hit knew I wus dar er rollin', 
 an' er r-o-l-lin', an' er r-o-l-l-i-n'! Gord', sez I, 
 'I can't stay heah!' An' I lit out an' tacked ercross 
 er hundred acre wheat fiel', runnin' fust dis way an' den dat, 
 an' 'round an' 'round er big hill, but dat ball jes tuck 
 ercross de fiel' too, an' tacked when I tacked, an' turned 
 cornders when I turned cornders, an' went 'round an' 
 'round dat hill, er rollin' an' er r-o-l-lin' straight fur 
 me an' nobody else, an' I'd bin er dead nigger 
 dis day ef I hadn't fell in er twenty-foot sink hole, jes' es de 
 ball tuck off my cap an' rolled on, killen' ten thousan' men 
 fo' miles on de yudder side ob de ribber and bored dat tun 
 nel thru' de hill dis side ob Nashvul whar de Ellen N 
 railroad now run dey trains thru' ebery day! er rollin' an'
 
 232 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 er r-o-l-l-lin! Gord, suh, it am de truf I wudn't tell er 
 lie fur sech er thing es er cannon ball, an* dars de tunnel dar, 
 you kin go thru' enny day an' see fur yo'sef," and he bit off 
 a piece of tobacco and shook his head long and earnestly. 
 
 "A very narrow escape," I remarked, "but that does 
 not explain how that old dun mule was the cause of your 
 present prosperity." 
 
 "I'm cummin' to dat now," he said as he put his tobacco 
 back into his hat, his red handkerchief on his tobacco and 
 the whole on his head. "When I fell in dat sink hole er 
 runnin' from dat ball, I broke three ribs, an' Gord bless yo' 
 soul, honey, Uncle Sam ain't gwi' see his sojers suffer in 
 dey ole aige fur hunurbul wounds got in battle, an' ef I ain't 
 drawin' ebry quarter, three dollars an' sixty-two cents fur 
 each one ob dem ribs den my name ain't Shadrack Ebenezer 
 Zadoc Washington Grundy, an' dat's de truf!" 
 
 MOLLIE. 
 
 NO fern-leaf sprang from mountain moss 
 With blither grace than Mollie's. 
 No lily on the lake across 
 
 Had fairer face than Mollie's. 
 And when the lily lifted up 
 The bubbling bubbles in her cup 
 From cut-glass pools where fern-maid's sup, 
 She drank a health to Mollie. 
 
 No wild-sloe hid, 'neath tan and red 
 A ruddier blush than Mollie's. 
 
 No wild-rose held a queenlier head 
 
 Where sang the thrush than Mollie's, 
 
 And when the red-thrush saw the maid 
 
 A glint of glory down the glade
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 233 
 
 He sang his sweetest serenade, 
 A serenade for Mollie. 
 
 No muscadine peeped from her vine 
 
 With saucier eyes than Mollie's. 
 No wild-bee sought her globes of wine 
 
 With softer sighs than Mollie's. 
 For when she sighed, and I did make 
 Me bold, a trembling kiss to take, 
 I saw them all wine, roses, lake 
 
 All in the eyes of Mollie. 
 
 O VOICES THAT LONG AGO LEFT ME. 
 
 O 
 
 VOICES that long ago left me, 
 
 O eyes that were long ago bright, 
 How often you come when the shadows 
 
 Creep into the eyes of the night, 
 When the moon-misted shadow encloses 
 
 The sorrow-starred eyes of the night 
 With you in a wreathing of roses 
 And rhymed in the laughter of light. 
 
 O, voices that long ago left me, 
 
 O, eyes that were long ago bright, 
 Why, why do ye come with the shadows 
 
 And why do ye not with the light 
 In the sun-shimmer'd glory of olden 
 
 In the sun-silvered sweetness of light? 
 Have ye learned that our tears become golden 
 
 When merged with the music of flight? 
 
 Then lead me, dear voices that left me, 
 
 And bring me, dear eyes that were bright,
 
 234 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 To that home where ye dwelleth forever, 
 
 To that land where there never is night 
 
 To that love-ling'ring land where the portal 
 Knows naught of the shadow of night, 
 
 And the wreathing of roses immortal 
 Is rhymed with the laughter of light. 
 
 TO A MORNING GLORY. 
 
 THOU art the dream of Nature when she sleeps 
 And dreams of youth-time and sweet April's eyes, 
 And slum'bring now, lo! 'round her breast there creeps 
 This pictured vision of departed skies. 
 
 Departed skies, concaved, with clouds of snow 
 Cerulean-depthed, that left us long ago. 
 
 And thou art Nature's memory when she wakes 
 
 All conscience-clear and weeping o'er the past, 
 Clear-visioned, keen, her yearning soul partakes 
 Of that which was, but was too pure to last. 
 
 And so she holds, with soft light breaking low, 
 Holds to her heart the hopes of long ago. 
 
 BR'ER WASHINGTON'S ARRAIGNMENT. 
 
 I AIN'T nurver tole you 'bout de time dey had me up befo' 
 de jedge at Nashvul fur makin', without license, er lee- 
 tie ob dat licker dat makes kings ob us all, is I ?" asked old Wash 
 the other day. "I don't kno' how in de wurl dey kotch me," 
 continued the old darkey, "fur I'd bin makin' it eber sense de 
 war up in de holler ob de Indian Camp Springs, whar de In 
 dians made it long, long ergo, befo' enny ob us wus bohn 
 jes' fo' or five galuns to keep de ole man's cow-ketcher
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 235 
 
 gwine," he continued, "an' I don't see how in de wurl dese 
 heah river-new offercers foun' it out. But dey did, an' fur 
 one time de ole man was sho' in a tight place. 
 
 "You see," he continued, "it ain't ebrybody kno' how to 
 make good whisky. I don't mean dis heah stuff dese po' 
 white trash makes up in de mountings, so strong an' vile dat 
 when you oncork a bottle ob it on dis yearth it make de deb- 
 bil sneeze in de reguns below. But I'm talkin' 'bout sho' 
 miff whisky whisky dat sho' nuff white folks drink so 
 pwore an' ripe dat all you hafter do is to oncork de stopper 
 on dis yearth an' watch de roses bloom in paradise. 
 
 "You must make it in October," he said knowingly, "er- 
 bout de time de fall poet begins to write his poem on de 
 golden rod, when de leabs begin to turn purple an' golden, 
 an' de air am crisp an' sparklin', an' de spring water am full 
 ob fallin' nuts, an' de 'romer ob de sweet night dews. You 
 mus' kotch yore water frum outen er col' spring dat flows 
 frum under sum sweet paw-paw tree, runnin' ober er bed-rock 
 ob blue limestone, in which er few acuns dun drapt to gib it 
 de strenf ob de oak tree. Den, sum night when de moon am 
 full an' de sent ob de wild haws fill all de air, jes' go out but 
 dar now," he said, laughingly, "whut's all dat gotter do wid 
 dis story? Nemminejes'you cum' round to my cabin sum day, 
 child, an' lemme let you taste it oncet. It's den you'll see 
 de gates ob glory open fur er minnit or two, an' de ladder of 
 konsolashun run up an' down 'twixt de heaben an' de yearth. 
 O, it's den you'll wish yore neck wus er spiral pipe, runnin' 
 roun' an' roun', so dat one drink would hafter go fifty miles 
 befo' it got outer sight," and the old man laughed heartily. 
 
 "But dey cotch me," he continued, "an' dey tuck me to 
 Nashvul, an' when dey put me in de jail my folks all got 
 erroun' me an' cried an' tole me good-bye, an' my wife she 
 tuck it pow'ful hard an' she wanted to go an' git de preacher 
 to cum an' pray fur me. Dat's de way wid sum kristuns," 
 said the old man, with a tinge of sarcasm in his tone, "dey
 
 236 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 willin' ernuff ter play hide-an'-seek wid de debbil long es dey 
 think dey am safe, but jes' es soon es dey gits cotched up wid 
 den dey wanter go in partnership wid de Lord! Huh! dey 
 didn't skeer me 'tall, an' I jes' say to my wife: 'Look heah, 
 Dinah, you jes' stop yore wailin' an' bellowment an' go on 
 home, an' ef I ain't dar by cane-grindin' time, you jes' go 
 on an' marry Brer Peter Dawson, de preacher, an' on de 
 night ob yore weddin' supper, you jes' go down to de medder 
 spring, dig fo' foot under it an' fetch out dat blue demmer- 
 john ob bred-in-de-purple licker I berrid dar fo'teen years 
 ergo, an' you an' Brer Peter jes' drink it to my health, fur ef 
 you don't, it's so pwore an' good an' ripe it will rise itself 
 sum day!' 
 
 "She kno' by dat I war gwi' stay heah in dis jail," 
 chuckled the old man; "I didn't make dat whisky fur my wife's 
 secun' husban' to drink. Huh! I had no noshun ob stayin' 
 heah in dis jail twell cane-grindin' time. Not fur makin' 
 good whisky now ef I made mean whisky dat ud bin ernud- 
 der thing an' I'd bin willin' to plead gilty an' say far'well. 
 
 "Den dey saunt er leetle lawyer to me an' he tuck me off 
 an' say he bin 'ployed to offen' me. An' den he say he gwi' 
 prove I wus er yallerby 'dough you sees yo'sef I'm es black 
 es er cro' an' he say he gwi' git out er writ ob circum-cum- 
 fetchum, an' ignis fat-you-us, an' abe-et-de-corpus an' all 
 dat. I tole 'im I much erbleeze ter him, but I wus gwi' go 
 dar an' tell de truf an' talk to dat jedge myse'f, an' wus gwi' 
 file er cross-cut-saw-bill into dat cote, sho'! 
 
 "Jes' fo' de trial cum off, I saunt down to my wife an' 
 tole her to dig up dat gallun I dun berrid down dar in de 
 medder fo'teen years befo' an' to fill up dat decanter my ole 
 marster gib me befo' he die, an' to fotch it to me. 
 
 "You nurver seed dat decanter, is you, suh? O, I tell 
 you my ole Marster wus er high roller an' dat decanter wus 
 er picture in er lookin' glass. It wus es thick es de roun' 
 pastern ob de race hoss an' made ob one solid piece ob cut
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 237 
 
 glass, an' cyarved in cammeos an' Greek god dermites, an' 
 de stopper itself wus de haid ob de Venus hersef on er bust 
 leastwise dat whut ole Marster sed an' he 'lowed she wus 
 sho' in de proper place to be on a bust! I tell you, suh, 
 when dat whisky got in dat decanter it look lak de grape juce 
 of heaven cotch in er dimon' urn an' framed in all de classic 
 glory ob de ainshunt Greeks. When de sunlight fall on it, it 
 look lak er big blazin' ruby sot in de crown ob er cherubin! 
 
 "I slip it under my cote an' went in to de cote-room. 
 An' dar dey played er mean trick on me, fur dey sot me down 
 in de same pen wid er lot ob po' white trash frum de moun 
 tings dat had bin cotch in de mean act ob makin' wild-cat 
 whisky! Gord, suh, hit made me mad fur I wan't used to 
 'soshatin' wid dat kind o' white folks! 
 
 "Toreckly de jedge an' de jury cum in an' de jedge sot 
 down an' red out: 'Newnighted States ergin Washington 
 Grundy.' 
 
 " 'Heah, Marster,' sez I, an' Gord bless yore soul, honey, 
 I pranced up befo' dat jedge innercent lookin' es de new-born 
 colt when he paced ober de speckled calf layin' in de weeds. 
 Den de jedge look ober his glasses sorter kind lak Gord 
 bless yo', honey, he knows er gennerman when he sees him! 
 an' he red sumpin ergin me an' den he ax me ef I'm gilty or 
 not gilty. 
 
 " 'Yes, Marster,' sez I, 'I'm gilty an' not gilty, too, an' 
 I'd lak ter 'splain to this honorbul cote how it am.' 
 
 "De jedge he smile an' de jury laf Gord bless you, 
 honey, dey knows er gennermen when dey meet 'im in de 
 rode, too an' de jedge he tells me I has de right to make 
 enny explunashuns I wants dat dat wus my privulage, an' 
 when he sed dat, I jes' made 'im er low bow, wid my hat un 
 der my arm, an' sez I: 'Thank you, Marster, you am er 
 genmen sho', an' er jedge lak de jedges ob de Bible.' An' I 
 laid erside my hat, button up tight my ole dubble-b rested
 
 238 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 King Alfrud cote, dat ole Marster gin me, whut he useter 
 wear when he made big speeches, an' I sez: 
 
 " 'Marse jedge an' gemmen ob de jury, you sees befo' 
 you heah a pore old nigger, cotch in de act uf manufactorin', 
 fur his stommick's sake, a leetle ob dat devine stuff dat makes 
 kings ob us all, an' fur dat reezun, fotch up, in his ole aige, 
 befo' dis honorbul cote fur transgreshuns ob de law. You ax 
 me ef I'm gilty ob makin' whisky dat wild-cat stuff dat 
 makes de rag-weeds bloom in paradise, an' turn de roses ob 
 hope into de dog-fennel ob dispair, an' I tells you No! But 
 if you ax me if I gilty ob makin' er leetle ob dat dervine 'lixer, 
 which turns de tuneless hart ob de most wretched an' mis- 
 serbul ob mankind into a hall wid harps ob er thousan' 
 strings, es I nurver tole a lie in my life, I must tell you Yes! 
 Not dat vile stuff dat kills our moral s'washun, an' lays us 
 in de gutter wid de dorgs, but dat blessed angul-ile, which, 
 taken in moderashun, es er gemman should, clothes de beggar 
 in silk, makes friends fur de frien'less an' coins gold fur de 
 goldless. Dis am de licker dat turns rags into roses, ole 
 maids into bloomin' gals an' er grabe-yard funeral discorse 
 into er poem on parerdise. Dat puts cheerity into our harts, 
 youth in our veins, an' spreads de warm cumfort ob lub over 
 de feather-bed ob de yunerverse. Dis am de licker dat on- 
 locks de doors ob de 'magernashun an' leads de poet's mind 
 through de streets ob gold, 'mid crystal pillars, up to de wall 
 of amerthest, up to de battlements ob light, whar he sees de 
 stars ob beautiful thoughts, a millyun miles befo' dey gets to 
 him, cummin on angel wings in beams ob sunlight! Dis am 
 de licker dat falls lak a splinter ob starlight to string de dew- 
 draps ob de hart. Dat Sollermon drunk, and David sung to; 
 dat Washington praised an' ole Hick'ry swore by. Heah it 
 am, gemmen ob de jury,' an' I pulled out dat decanter an' 
 hilt it befo' dey eyes, an' it blind 'em, lak de sunshine risin' 
 in de valley 'heah it am, gemmen ob de jury,' I sed, 'wid 
 truth in its eyes an' lub in its hart de embottled poem ob
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 239 
 
 de yunerverse! Taste it, an' ef it am whisky dat stuff wid 
 cat-claws an' debbil breath den sen' me up long wid dis 
 po' white trash fur makin' wild-cat whisky, es er groveller 
 wid swine an' er eater ob husks. 
 
 " 'But ef it smells lak de new-bohn bref ob de infunt 
 anguls, looks into yore eyes lak de lakes ob lub in de depths 
 ob de blue-eyed cherubins, an' tastes lak de resurrected dream 
 ob de fus' kiss yore sweet-hart gib you in de days ob long 
 ergo, den sot de ole man free!' 
 
 "Wid dat, I oncorks de bottle, an' lo! dat dingy ole cote- 
 room change in er minnit! 'Stid ob de smell ob books, an' 
 sweatin' lawyers, an' ambeer, an' dusty floors, you'd er thort 
 all de skule gals an' nymphs ob de ages hed cum dar to bathe, 
 perfumed wid de otter ob de roses ob Eden an' dey ha'r dat 
 fell ober dey allerbaster sholders 'nointed wid de oil Ep- 
 pollo made. You'd er thout de janitor ob heaben hed turned 
 de sprinklin' pot ob glory on de yearth, filled wid de water 
 ob peppermint an' camfire, purfumed wid vi'lets an' tinctured 
 wid angul tears! 
 
 "De ole figured paper on de walls blossumed into rale 
 flowers; de dingy ole winders blazed lak de winders ob 
 mohnin' when de day-king rise; the old dusty mattin' on de 
 floor wus er carpet ob blue grass down in de medder, wid 
 daisys an' daffodils all ober it, an' eben de spider-webs on de 
 ceilin' was changed into tapestry of silver, whilst de freskoes 
 hung down in fillergree works ob gold. I looked at de jedge 
 an' de jury an' dar dey sot in stuperment an' 'stonishment 
 wid acquittal writ in de tender depths ob dey meltin' eyes. 
 
 "I handed dat decanter to de fus' jury he jes' smelt 
 it an' fell ober in er dead faint, callin' out, sorter dream lak, 
 'Not gilty, not gilty.' De naixt one taste it, an' I seed de light 
 of Genersis break in on 'im. De thud one tuck er big swaller 
 an' dey had to hold 'im to de yearth to keep 'im frum 'vapor- 
 atin', lak Exerdus, to heaben. An' all de yudders, es fast es 
 dey taste it, wus added to de numbers ob dem dat was fur me!
 
 2 4 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 But when it got to de jedge, suh, he tuck er grate big swaller 
 to see ef I wus lyin' or not, an' Gord bless yore soul, honey, 
 he hadn't mor'n taste it befo' he riz frum dat bench, shouted 
 'Glory, hallylujah!' an' fell on my neck an' wept. I look 
 'round at de lawyurs what hadn't tasted it, suh, an' dar dey 
 sot, froze to dey chairs, wid de s'liver runnin' outen de cor 
 ners ob dey mouths lak po' houns 'roun' er sawsage mill. An' 
 befo' I knowed whut it all mean dey all broke out singin' dat 
 good ole him: 
 
 " Dis am de stuff we long hab sought, 
 An' mourned bekase we foun' it not." 
 
 "When I seed I had 'em on de mourner's bench, suh, 
 den it wus my time! I drawed mysef up two or three foot 
 higher, buttoned up my ole King Alfrud cote anudder link, 
 an' sed: 
 
 " 'An' now, gemmen ob de jury, sense dis Newnighted 
 States govument dun see fit to 'raign me, I wanter 'raign 
 hit. I've bin heah befo', yo' honor. I've bin heah to listen 
 to de greates' lawyer de State ob Tennessee eber raised, my 
 ole Marster, de 'Onerbul Felix Grundy, an' time an' ergin 
 I've seed 'im stand rat heah, in dis very cote dat I've got on, 
 an* in dis very room, an' shake de roof wid de thunder ob 
 his larnin' an' de lightnin' ob his wit. Allers on de side ob 
 de po', allers on de side ob jestus. An' ef he wus erlive to 
 day, he'd git up heah an' say to you all: 'Let dis ole nigger 
 go!' and you kno' you'd do it. 
 
 " 'In de good ole days, gemmen, he tort me menny 
 things. He tort me to be true, to tell de truf an' to raise 
 horses. Men lak him an' yore fathers, gemmen, tuck my 
 ancesturs out ob de jungles ob barbarity an! led us into de 
 blessed temple ob religun an' light. Dey made slaves ob 
 us to do it, gemmem, but I thang Gord I wus erlowed to 
 be er slave in dis wurl fur de sake ob bein' etunnally free in 
 de naixt. Menny an' menny er time, gemmen, Ive driv my
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 241 
 
 ole Marster in his cheeriut an' fo', an' he'd tell you hissef, ef 
 he wus heah to-day, I'm de onlies' nigger lef in de State 
 of Tennessee dat kin drive er thurrerbred fo'-in-han', holdin' 
 de ribbins wid de fo'-fingers ob my lef han' an' playin' on 
 de tender moufs es gently es er lady touches de strings ob 
 de light gittar. He made me er Christun an' er gentlemun, 
 aigucated my po' cannabal pallit to de glory ob Tennessee 
 mutten an' de sweetness ob Tennessee beef. An' it wus from 
 his side-board I fus' got de taste ob dat licker you jes' tasted 
 dat licker dat makes kings ob us all an' all I wanted in dis 
 wurl wus to stay wid 'im twell I die. 
 
 " 'But in my ole aige, heah cums dis Newnighted States 
 guvermen' an' sots me free. An' O, Marsters, dey sot me 
 free indeed free frum de friends I lubbed, free frum de 
 cumperny ob genmen, free frum de good things ob de wurl, 
 an', wus ob all, free frum de sight but not de appertite ob 
 dat licker dat makes kings ob us all! 'Stid ob drivin' er cheeriut 
 ob fo' down de pike ob de valley ob plenty, I mus' plow er 
 leetle tow-haided muel on de flinty hillsides ob poverty. 'Stid 
 ob soshatin' wid larned men who sot in de counsils ob dis 
 country an' de cotes ob de kings, I mus' be cussed an' mocked 
 by de hill-billy an' de po' white, or forced to 'soshate wid 
 low-lived an' low-mannered niggers an' fiel'-han's. An' 'stid 
 ob drinkin' de 'lixer ob life frum de decanter ob de gords, 
 in my ole aige, I'm forced to drink de branch water ob pov 
 erty frum de gourd dat grows in de barn-yard ob toil. Aigu 
 cated er gemmen, turned out wid tuffs! Raised on roast beef 
 an' mutton, now hafter hustle ter git bacon an' greens ! Used 
 to de licker ob civerlizashun, now hafter drink de branch 
 water ob barbarerty. An' ef I chance to remember de things 
 ob my youth an' yield to de temptashun ob er higher aigu- 
 cashun, fotch up heah in my ole aige to be saunt to jail fur 
 tryin' to lib lak er gentlemun an' er Christun. Gentlemun, 
 kin you do it? Marsters, will you sen' de ole man up? 
 
 "'No! by the Eternal, we won't!' said er nice lookin'
 
 242 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 gemmen dat wus settin' on de jury, an' den dey all riz an' 
 say: 'Jedge, not gilty! Not gilty!' An' dey crowd 'round 
 me so de jedge has to 'journ cote, an' dey shook my han' 
 wid de glory ob dat licker still in dey eyes shinin' lak cheru- 
 bins in the lakes ob lub. An' es de jedge pass out he tech 
 my arm an' say: 
 
 " 'Washington, de jury found you not gilty, but heah 
 am fifty dollars to pay de tax on de naixt run ob de still at 
 Indian Camp Springs; an' ef it happens ter be er good deal 
 too much to pay de river-new, jes' make er leetle mo' an' 
 send it to yore friend, de jedge ob de Suddern Deestrick ob 
 de Newnighted States.' " 
 
 LONGIN' FUR TENNESSEE. 
 (A Lament From Yankee Land.) 
 
 OI'M LONGIN', jes' er longin' fur a sight ob Tennessee, 
 Fur de cabin in de valley 'neath de shady ellumtree, 
 Fur de purple on de hill-top, an' de green upon de plain. 
 An' dat hazy, lazy sweetness jes' ter fill my bones ergain. 
 Do de colts all cum a-pacin' lak dey useter cum fur me? 
 Do de fee'-lark sing es sweetly frum de shugar-maple tree? 
 Will de chilluns cum to meet me, an' my wife, dat's dead an' 
 
 gone, 
 
 Will she sing, jes' lak she useter, in de cotton an' de cohn? 
 O, chilluns, I'm cummin', 
 
 Fur de ole man's almos' free, 
 An' I'm longin', jes' er longin' 
 Fur er sight ob Tennessee. 
 
 O, I'm longin', jes' er longin' fur er breath ob Tennessee, 
 Fur de wind frum off de mount'in made foreber fur de free, 
 Fur de lesson an' de bless'n in de blue sky up erbove, 
 An' de locus'-blossoms bloomin' on de grabes ob dem I lub.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 
 
 243 
 
 Am de 'possum still house-keepin' 'mong de grapes ob Bigby 
 
 Creek? 
 An' young mistis do she kerry still de grape-bloom in her 
 
 cheek? 
 Ken you heah de sheep-bell tinkle, tinkle, on de blue-grass 
 
 hill, 
 
 While de water jine de chorus frum de ole wheel at de mill? 
 Yes, marster, dat's er fac' you say, 
 
 De ole man he am free 
 But I'd be er slave ergin 
 
 Fur jes' er breaf ob Tennessee! 
 
 O, I'm longin', jes' er longin' fur er home in Tennessee. 
 Fur de cabin dat ole marster bilt fur Dinah an' fur me, 
 Whar de chillun cum an' left us lak de dew-drap leab de 
 
 grass 
 
 All withered up an' yearnin' fur de little things dat's pas'. 
 I kno' dey dead but still I feel ef I'd go dar onc't mo', 
 Mebbe dey'd cum ergin sum day an' play befo' de do', 
 Mebbe my mammy'd cum ergin her little boy to take 
 An' sing fur him dat lullerby frum which he'd never wake. 
 O, mammy, I'm er cummin', 
 
 Sabe dat lullerby fur me 
 
 Fur I'm longin', jes' er longin' 
 
 Fur er grabe in Tennessee. 
 
 A RAY FROM CALVARY. 
 
 O CHRISTMAS, happy Christmas, in the days that bring 
 their cheer, 
 
 One thought amid the centuries grows brighter every year: 
 That not alone for man was made the sweetness of thy birth, 
 And not alone for him was decked the holly-wreathed earth, 
 But all that on Him doth depend, like Him might blessed be, 
 And catch the reflex of that ray that fell from Calvary.
 
 244 
 
 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 THE CHRIST-STAR HAS RISEN. 
 
 T 
 
 'WI LIGHT and Christmas Eve- 
 
 Sky bright with starry weave, 
 Moonlight and music o'er earth and in air, 
 Sweet bell and swelling note, 
 Heart-hopes that rise and float 
 Faith-winged to heaven in flash-lights of prayer. 
 
 Sunrise and Christmas morn, 
 
 Love lies so lowly born 
 Heaven and Human in meekness have met; 
 
 Hope tho' the light be low, 
 
 Faith through the blight and blow 
 The Christ-star has risen, it never will set! 
 
 TENNESSEE. 
 (A centennial poem.) 
 
 SUN-shimmer'd fields of dreaming green, 
 A sky blue-domed in azure sheen, 
 And hill on hill dipped deep between. 
 And with soft sighs the breezes rise 
 To waft cloud-kisses to the skies. 
 
 Nature smiled, and dimpled back 
 
 The Middle Basin in her track. 
 
 She laughed, and ling'ring on its crest 
 
 Her echo rolled from out the west. 
 
 She frowned, and 'round her thoughtful brow, 
 
 'Rose our bold peaks of liberty. 
 
 'Rose, and wedded with the sky 
 
 For Liberty will wed no less 
 
 Than this sky-child of loveliness, 
 
 With eyes of stars and sunset tress.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 245 
 
 And one King's Mountain peak in name 
 Has linked his wedding day to fame 
 For scorning Self, and hoiden Mirth, 
 And flesh-pot Pride, and cringing Earth, 
 He kissed his bride-queen of the sky 
 And gave to Independence birth. 
 
 God saw the picture, that 'twas good, 
 And so on heaven's heights He stood 
 And through the bars of throbbing stars 
 Sent men whose souls were souls of Mars. 
 
 God saw the picture, that 'twas fair, 
 And so, from out of heaven's air, 
 Through dreamy haze of nebulous ways 
 (Souled in the sweetness of their lays 
 And crowned in the halo of their blaze) 
 Sent maids to wed these men of Mars. 
 
 And over all, from Morning's loom, 
 He cast a veil of blue and bloom, 
 As ancient kings a cloth of gold 
 Threw o'er the master works of old. 
 
 When star weds star, the stars are born, 
 And after star-birth comes the morn, 
 The morn of Men and Principle. 
 And so men came of giant frame 
 Live-oaks in the field of Fame 
 Monarchs in God's forestry. 
 
 (I) 
 
 And one came as the Hickory, with steel-knit, stubborn form, 
 The gatherer of strength that's won by wrestling with the 
 
 storm, 
 The main-mast of that sturdy ship that first flung to the world
 
 246 SONGS AND STORIES 
 
 The heaven-reflected glory of the Stars and Stripes unfurled. 
 He came and smote, and from the throat of guns of Ten 
 nessee, 
 He echoed back the thunder-note of infant Liberty. 
 
 (2) 
 
 And one grew as the rough, Red Oak, from out the deep, 
 
 rich soil 
 
 The strength of ages garnered in the nobleness of toil 
 He stood and died for Liberty, and far across the sea 
 Tossed back the new world's answer to a new Thermopylae. 
 
 (3) 
 
 And one was like the Willow in his grace of heart and mind, 
 And holds the list'ning ear of fame as the harpstring holds 
 
 the wind. 
 
 (4) 
 
 And one was like the stately Pine, his name an evergreen 
 Held in the prow-beak of each ship that sails the seas be- 
 
 (5) 
 
 And one came as the Cedar, and reared his lofty crest 
 To gather 'neath its ample boughs an empire from the west. 
 
 (6) 
 And thousands stood as Cypresses, when the axe of Fate was 
 
 nigh, 
 And in their moss of tatter'd gray with proud heads in the 
 
 sky, 
 Fell in the fadeless forest of Immortality. 
 
 O, children of such Deeds as these, 
 As rivers flow to make the seas, 
 Great spirits make great destinies. 
 O, sons of sires, these deeds adorn, 
 As true as sunlight unto morn, 
 Is deed that lives, to deed unborn.
 
 FROM TENNESSEE. 247 
 
 O, maids of mothers, know ye then, 
 As purest stream from deepest glen, 
 Great mothers only rear great men. 
 Hark, now, from out his leafy throne, 
 What sings our Mock-bird, Mendelssohn: 
 
 Tennessee, Tennessee, 
 All our song goes out to thee. 
 
 From our eyries where the eagles breed the spirit of the free 
 To the cataract that catches up the lay of liberty; 
 From our vestal hills uplifting emerald offerings to the sky, 
 To the Basin in whose bosom heaven's garnered glories lie. 
 Singing, singing, singing, as the wind sings to the sea, 
 Clinging, clinging, clinging, as the vine clings to the tree, 
 Songs of hope and songs of sadness, 
 Songs of home and songs of gladness, 
 Songs of thee. 
 
 Tennessee, Tennessee, 
 All our love goes out to thee. 
 From our mountains where the marble dreams of beauty yet 
 
 to be, 
 
 To the mighty marching river bearing bounty to the sea; 
 From our Eastland where the clover blossom mocks the pur 
 ple morn, 
 To the West where cotton banners mimic sunset 'mid the 
 
 corn. 
 
 Giving, giving, giving, as the blossom gives the bee, 
 Living, living, living, as should ever live the free, 
 Love of truth and love of beauty, 
 Love of God and love of duty, 
 Love of thee. 
 
 (i) Jackson. (2) Crockett. (3) Haskell. (4) Matt F. 
 Maury. (5) James K. Polk. (6) Confederate soldiers.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A Cavalry Drill in Old Tennessee 4-2 
 
 A Harvest Song 97 
 
 A Little Cry in the Night 178 
 
 Alone 116 
 
 A Memory 122 
 
 A Morning Ride 126 
 
 A Ray From Calvary 243 
 
 Beauty 156 
 
 Bre'r Washington's Arraignment 234 
 
 By the Little Big Horn 56 
 
 Christmas Morn 192 
 
 Clouds 131 
 
 Dick 141 
 
 Eulalee 123 
 
 Fair Times in Old Tennessee 72 
 
 First Monday in Tennessee 62 
 
 Gray Gamma 108 
 
 Hal Pointer at Buffalo 197 
 
 Hal Pointer on Memorial Day 199 
 
 How Old Wash Captured a Gun 228 
 
 How Old Wash Sold the Filly ,220 
 
 How Robert J. Broke the Record 194 
 
 How the Bishop Broke the Record 187 
 
 Huntin' o' the Quail 105 
 
 Immortality 133 
 
 It Can Not Be 177
 
 Lcttie 138 
 
 Life's Christmas 140 
 
 Little Sam 132 
 
 Longin' fur Tennessee 242 
 
 Marjorie 123 
 
 Miss Kitty's Fun'ral . . .*. 75 
 
 Mollie 232 
 
 Morning 193 
 
 Nora 172 
 
 Ole Mistis 14 
 
 Our Bob 172 
 
 O Voices That Long Ago Left Me 233 
 
 Reconciliation 227 
 
 Sam Davis 170 
 
 Success 7 
 
 Sunset on the Tennessee 168 
 
 Tennessee ; 244 
 
 The Basin of Tennessee 7 
 
 The Bells of Atlanta 161 
 
 The Blue Grass Plot 40 
 
 The Christ Star Has Risen 244 
 
 The Church of the Heart 117 
 
 The Evening Star 220 
 
 The Faith of Old 71 
 
 The Flag of Green's Brigade 53 
 
 The Hills 54 
 
 The Juliet of the Grasses 164 
 
 The Lily of Fort Custer 202 
 
 The Mule Race at Ash wood 127 
 
 The Music of the Pines 218 
 
 The Old Meadow Spring 98
 
 The Old Plantation 226 
 
 The Pines of Monterey 183 
 
 The Rabbit Trap 74 
 
 The Sleep of the Flowers v 104 
 
 The Spelling Match at Big Sandy 179 
 
 The Summer of Long Ago .' 13 
 
 The Tennesseean to the Flag 216 
 
 The Tennessee Girl and the. Pacing Mare 134 
 
 The Track Around the Stove 198 
 
 The True Singer 61 
 
 The Wolf Hunt on Big Bigby 99 
 
 Thoroughbreds 156 
 
 'Tis But a Dream 179 
 
 To a Blue Jay.... 118 
 
 To a Mocking Bird in the Pine Top 58 
 
 To a Morning Glory 234 
 
 To an American Boy 184 
 
 To a Sweet Pea 41 
 
 To a Wild Rose on an Indian Grave 95 
 
 To Burns 218 
 
 To the Spirit of May 107 
 
 To Whittier, Dead 192 
 
 Truth in Beauty 214 
 
 Under the Pines 215 
 
 Wearing the Gray 159 
 
 When de Fat am on de Possum 130 
 
 When the Colts are in the Ring 73 
 
 Where the Glory Lies 169 
 
 Wonderful Men 184 
 
 Work Through It All >. . 225 
 
 Yesterday 120