On the Plantation: A Story of a Georgia Boy's Adventures during the War

CHAPTER IV—SHADOWS OF THE WAR

What with the books in the library and the life out of doors in the afternoons, Joe Maxwell grew very fond of his new home. His work at the printers’ case was not a task, but a pleasure. He grew to be an expert in type-setting and won unstinted praise from Mr. Snelson. Sometimes he wrote little paragraphs of his own, crediting them to “The Countryman’s Devil,” and the editor was kind enough to make no objection, and this fact was very encouraging to the lad, who was naturally shy and sensitive.

Only the echoes of the war were heard at the Turner place; but once the editor returned from Hillsborough with some very sad news for a lady who lived near The Countryman office with her father, Her husband had been killed in one of the great battles, and her screams when the editor told her of it, and the cries of her little daughter, haunted Joe Maxwell for many a long day. Sometimes he lay awake at night thinking about it, and out of the darkness it seemed to him that he could build a grim mirage of war, vanishing and reappearing like an ominous shadow, and devouring the people.

The war was horrible enough, distant as it was, but the people who were left at home—the women and children, the boys, the men who were exempt, the aged and the infirm—had fears of a fate still more terrible. They were fears that grew out of the system of slavery, and they grew until they became a fixed habit of the mind. They were the fears of a negro insurrection. The whites who were left at home knew that it was in the power of the negroes to rise and in one night sweep the strength and substance of the Southern Confederacy from the face of the earth. Some of the more ignorant whites lived in constant terror.

Once it was whispered around that the blacks were preparing to rise, and the fears of the people were so ready to confirm the rumor that the plantations were placed in a state of siege. The patrol—called by the negroes “patter-rollers”—was doubled, and for a time the negro quarters in all parts of the country were visited nightly by the guard. But Joe Maxwell noticed that the patrol never visited the Turner plantation, and he learned afterward that they had been warned off. The editor of The Countryman had the utmost confidence in his negroes, and he would not allow them to be disturbed at night by the “patter-rollers.” He laughed at the talk of a negro uprising, and it was a favorite saying of his that the people who treated their negroes right had nothing to fear from them.

As for Joe Maxwell, he had no time to think about such things. He sometimes rode with the patrol on their fruitless and sometimes foolish errands, but his curiosity with regard to them was soon satisfied, and he was better contented when he was spending his evenings at home with his books, or in listening to the wonderful tales that Mr. Snelson told for his benefit. In spite of the fact that his work in the little printing-office was confining, the lad managed to live an outdoor life for a good part of the time. He had a task to do—so many thousand ems to set—and then he was through for the day. The thoughtful Mr. Snelson added to this task from time to time, but Joe always managed to complete it so as to have the greater part of the afternoon for his own.

There was a hat-shop on the plantation presided over by Mr. Wall, a queer old man from North Carolina. With the thrift of youth Joe gave the amusement of rabbit-hunting a business turn. In the fall and winter, when the rabbits were in fur, their skins could be sold at the hat-shop at twenty-five cents a dozen, and the little harriers were so industrious and so well trained that he sometimes sold as many as three dozen skins, a week. In addition to the pleasure and the money he got from the sport, he became very much interested in the hat-shop.

The hats were made as they had been during the Revolution, and as they were no doubt made in England before the Revolution. The hair on the pelts or skins was scraped off with a knife fashioned like a shoemaker’s knife. The fur was then cut away with a steel blade that had no handle. When there was enough fur to make a hat it was placed on a bench or counter. Over the counter was suspended a long staff, to which was fastened a bowstring. If the staff had been bent it would have had the appearance of a huge bow, but it was straight, and the rawhide string was allowed a little play. With an instrument not unlike a long spool the hatter would catch the bowstring, pull it away from the staff, and allow it to whip against the fur as it sprang back into place. This whipping was carried on very rapidly, and was kept up until every tuft of fur was broken apart. Then the fur was whipped gently into what was called a bat, shaped somewhat like a section of orange peel. The hatter then spread a cambric cloth carefully over it, pressed it down a little, seized the cloth in the middle between thumb and forefinger, gave it a flirt in the air and lifted fur and all. To Joe Maxwell it seemed like a trick of magic.

The cloth, with the bat of fur lying smoothly and neatly in its fold, was then placed on a heating box, and kneaded rapidly but gently. When it seemed to be getting too hot it was sprinkled with water. This kneading was kept up until the fur shrunk together. When taken from the cloth it was in the shape of the hats the clowns used to wear in the circus, and it was called a bonnet. The bonnet was then dipped in boiling water and pressed and kneaded with an instrument shaped like a rolling-pin, but smaller. The workers in this department were compelled to protect their hands from the boiling water by means of leather fastened to the palms of their hands. The more the bonnets were rolled and kneaded, the more they shrunk, until finally they were ready to be placed on the blocks that gave them the hat shape. They were fitted to these blocks, which were of various sizes, and thrown into a caldron of boiling water, where they were allowed to stay until they would shrink no more.

When hats became scarce after the breaking out of the war, the editor bought Mr. Wall’s interest in the hat-shop, and made him foreman. Several negroes were placed under him, and they soon became experts in hat-making. There was a great demand for the hats from all over the South, and on one occasion Joe Maxwell sold a dozen wool hats for $500—in Confederate money.

But the most interesting thing about the shop, as Joe thought, was the head hatter, Miles Wall, who was the quaintest old man that Joe had ever seen. He was illiterate—he didn’t know a letter in the book—and yet he was not ignorant. The Bible had been read to him until he was grounded in its texts and teachings, and he was always ready for an argument on politics or religion.

“Whenever you hear anybody a-axing anything,” he used to say, “’bout how I’m a-gettin’ on, an’ how my family is, un’ whether er no my health is well, you thess up an’ tell um that I’m a nachul Baptis’. You thess up an’ tell um that, an’ I’ll be mighty much erbleege to you. Tell um I’m a born’d Baptis’.”

Although Mr. Wall was unable to read or write, Joe Maxwell found him to be a very interesting talker. Perhaps it was his ignorance of books that made him interesting. He was more superstitious than any of the negroes—a great believer in signs and omens. One night when Joe went to visit him, the old man told a story that made a very deep impression on the lad. There was nothing in the story, but Mr. Wall identified himself with it, and told it in a way that made it seem real, and it was a long time before Joe could divest himself of the idea that the story was not true. Wherever Mr. Wall got it, whether he dreamed it or heard it, there is no doubt that he really believed it.

CHAPTER V—MR. WALL’S STORY

This is the way he told it, by the light of a pine-knot fire that threw a wavering and an uncertain light over the little room:

“I’m monst’us sorry. Daught ain’t here,” he began, “’cause she know’d the folks thess ez well ez I did; she’s been thar at the house an’ seed um. It thess come inter my min’ whilst we been a-settin’ here talkin’ ’bout ghostses an’ the like er that. Daught’s over yander settin’ up wi’ Mis Clemmons, an’ I wisht she wuz here. She know’d ’em all.

“Well, sir, it wuz in North Ca’liny, right nex’ ter the Ferginny line, whar we all cum frum. They wuz a fammerly thar by the name er Chambliss—Tom Chambliss an’ his wife—an’ they had a boy name John, in about ez peart a chap ez you ever set your eyes on. Arter awhile, Miss Chambliss, she took sick an’ died. Tom, he moped aroun’ right smartually, but ’twan’t long fo’ he whirled in an’ married agin. He went away off some’rs for to get his wife, the Lord knows whar, an’ she wuz a honey! She fussed so much an’ went on so that Tom, he took ter drink, an’ he went from dram ter dram tell he wern’t no manner account. Then she took arter John, the boy, an’ she thess made that child’s life miserbul a-doggin’ arter him all day long an’ half the night.

“One Sunday she fixed up an’ went ter church, arter tellin’ Johnny for to stay at home an’ keep the chickens outn’ the sallid-patch. She locked the door of the house before she went off an’ took the key wi’ ’er. It wuz right down coolish, but the sun wuz a-shinin’ an’ Johnny didn’t min’ the cold. Ther’ wuz a big white oak-tree in the yard, an’ he clum’ up that an’ crope out on a lim’ an’ got on top er the house, an’ sot up thar a straddle er the comb. He wuz a feeling mighty lonesome, an’ he didn’t know what ter do wi’ hisse’f skacely.

“I dunno how long he sot thar, but presently a great big acorn dropped on the roof—ker-bang! It wuz sech a big one an’ it fell so hard that it made Johnny jump. It fell on the roof ’bout half-way betwixt the comb an’ the eaves, an’ when Johnny looked aroun’ for to see what made the fuss he seed the acorn a-rollin’ up to’rds whar he wuz a-settin’. Yes, sir! stedder rollin’ down the roof an’ failin’ off on the groun’, the acorn come a-rollin’ up the shingles thess like it wuz down grade. Johnny grabbed it ez it come. He picked it up an’ looked at it good, an’ then turned it roun’ an’ ’roun’ for to see what kinder consarn it wuz that rolled up hill stedder rollin’ down hill. While he wuz a turnin’ the acorn aroun’ he spied a worm hole in it, an’ he was thess about ter break it open when he heard somebody callin’. It sounded like his stepmammy wuz a-callin’ ’im from a way off yander, an’ he answered back ‘Ma’am!’ thess ez loud as ever he could, an’ then he sot still an’ listened. Bimeby he heard the callin’ again, an’ he answered back: ‘Who is you, an’ whar is you?’ It seemed like then that he could hear somebody laughin’ at ’im some’rs. These here sounds sorter put ’im out, an’ he took an’ shot the acorn down the roof like it wuz a marvel. Yit, before it could fall off, it seemed ter kinder ketch itself, an’ then it come a-rollin’ back to Johnny.

“This sorter made Johnny feel kinder creepy. He know’d mighty well that he didn’t have no loadstone in his pocket, an’ he couldn’t make no head ner tail to sech gwine’s on. He picked up the acorn an’ looked at it closeter than ever, an’ turned it ’roun’ an’ ’roun’ in his hand, an’ helt it right up to his eye. Whilst he was a-holdin’ it up that a-way he heard a little bit er voice ez fine ez a cambric needle, an’ it seem like it wuz a-singin’:

“Ningapie, Ningapie!

Why do you hol’ me at your eye?

Ningapie, Ningapee!

Don’t you know that you can’t see?

Ningapie, Ningapeer!

Why don’t you hol’ me to your ear?

“Johnny didn’t know whether to laugh er cry, but he helt the acorn to his ear, an’ he heard sumpin’ er other on the inside holler out:

“‘Why don’t you hold my house so I can talk out’n my window?’

“‘I don’t see no window,’ says Johnny, sorter shakin’ a little, bekase the Watchermacollum talked like it was mad. ‘Is thish here worm-hole your window?’

“’Tooby shore it is,’ say the Whatshisname, ’it’s my window an’ my front door, an’ my peazzer.’

“‘Why, it ain’t bigger than the pint of a pin,’ says Johnny.

“‘But ef it wuzn’t big enough,’ say the—er—Watchermacollum, ‘I’d make it bigger.’

“‘What is your name?’ says Johnny.

“‘Ningapie.’

“‘It’s a mighty funny name,’ says Johnny. ‘Where did you come from?’

“‘Chuckalucker town.’

“‘That’s in the song,’ says Johnny.

“‘Me, too,” says Ningapie. ‘It’s in the song. Ain’t you never heard it?’

“Ningapie! Ningapan!

He up an’ killed the Booger Man!

Ningapie, Ningapitch!

‘He’s the one to kill a witch.’

“Johnny wuz so took up wi’ the talkin’ an’ the singin’ of the little feller in the acorn that he didn’t hear his stepmammy when she come, an’ when he did hear her he wuz that skeered that he shook like a poplar-leaf.

“‘Watch out!’ says the little chap in the acorn. ‘Watch out! Be right still. Don’t move. I want to show you sumpin’.’

“‘She’ll skin me alive,’ says Johnny.

“‘Thess wait,’ says the little chap. ‘If she calls you, keep right still.’

“Mis. Chambliss onlocked the door an’ went in the house, an’ slammed things down like she wuz mad. She flung the tongs down on the h’ath, slung the shovel in a corner, an’ sot a cheer back like she wuz tryin’ for to drive it thoo the wall. Then she began to jaw.

“‘I’ll get ’im! Me a-tellin’ ’im to stay an’ min’ the sallid-patch, an’ he a-runnin’ off! Won’t I make ’im pay for it?’

“‘That’s me,’ says Johnny, an’ he talked like he wuz mighty nigh ready to cry.

“‘Thess wait!’ says the little chap in the acorn. ‘Keep right still!’

“Bimeby Mis. Chambliss come out’n the house an’ looked all aroun’. Then she called Johnny. She had a voice like a dinner-horn, an’ you moughter heard her a mile or more. Johnny he shook an’ shivered, but he stayed still. His stepmammy called an’ called, an’ looked ever’whar for Johnny exceptin’ in the right place. Then she went back in the house an’ presently she come out. She had a little spade in one hand an’ a little box in t’ other.

“‘Watch her!’ says the little chap in the acorn. ‘Keep your eye on her!’

“She went down in the gyarden an’ walked along tell she come to a Mogul plum-tree, an’ then she knelt down an’ begun to dig away at the roots of it. She dug an’ dug, and then she put the box in the hole an’ covered it up.

“‘Oho!’ says the little chap in the acorn. ‘Now you see whar she hides her money an’ your daddy’s money. Ever’body thinks your daddy has been a-throwin’ his money away, an’ thar’s whar it’s gone. I’ve been a-watchin’ her a long time.’

“‘I ain’t botherin’ ’bout the money,’ says Johnny. ‘I’m a-thinkin’ ’bout the frailin’ I’m gwine to git.’

“‘Well,’ says the little chap in the acorn, ‘when she goes to the spring for to fetch a bucket of water, put me in your pocket an’ climb down from here. Then go up the road a piece, an’ there you’ll see a red cow a-grazin’. Walk right up to her, slap her on the back, an’ say, “Ningapie wants you.” Fetch her home an’ tell your stepmammy that a stranger told you that you might have her ef you’d go an’ git her.’

“Shore enough, ’twan’t long before Mis. Chambliss come out’n the house an’ started to the spring for to git a bucket of water. She had done took an’ pulled off her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ duds, an’ she looked mighty scrawny in her calico frock. Time she got out’n sight Johnny put the acorn in his pocket an’ scrambled down to the groun’, an’ then he split off up the road ez hard ez ever he could go. He didn’t go so mighty fur before he seed a red cow feedin’ by the side of the road, an’ she wuz a fine cow, too, ez fat ez a butter-ball, an’ lookin’ like she mought be able for to give four gallons of milk a day an’ leave some over for the calf wharsoever the calf mought be. When she seed Johnny walkin’ right to’rds her, she raised her head an’ sorter blowed like cow creeturs will do, but she stood stock still tell Johnny come up an’ patted her on the back an’ says:

“‘Ningapie wants you.’

“Then she shook her head an’ trotted along at Johnny’s heels, an’ Johnny marched down the road a-swellin’ up wi’ pride tell he like to bust the buttons off’n his coat. When he got home his stepmammy wuz a-stan’in’ at the gate a-waitin’ for him wi’ a hickory, but when she seed the cow a-followin’ long behine him, she took an’ forgot all about the whippin’ she’d laid up.

“‘Why, Johnny!’ say she, ’whar in the wide world did you git sech a be-u-tiful cow?’”

In his effort to mimic a woman’s voice, Mr. Wall screwed up his mouth and twisted it around to such an alarming extent that Joe Maxwell thought for an instant the old man was going to have a spasm. The lad laughed so heartily when he found out his mistake that Mr. Wall repeated his effort at mimicking.

“‘Why, Johnny,’ say she, ‘whar in the wide world did you git sech a be-u-tiful cow?’

“Johnny, he up an’ tol’ his stepmammy what Ningapie tol’ ’im to say, an’ the ole’oman, she wuz e’en about ez proud ez Johnny wuz. She patted the cow on the back, an’ muched her up might’ly, an’ then she took her in the lot an’ got ready fer to milk her. Johnny felt the acorn a-jumpin’ about in his pocket, an’ he took it out an’ helt it up to his ear.

“‘Watch her when she goes to milk,’ says Ningapie.

“Johnny clumb the fence an’ waited. Thess ’bout the time his stepmammy begun fer to milk the cow good, a little black dog come a-rushin’ ’roun’ the yard a-barkin’ fit to kill. Time she heard ’im, the cow give a jump an’ come mighty nigh knockin’ ole Mis. Chambliss over. Time everything got quiet, here come a big pack of dogs a-chargin’ ’roun’ the lot-palin’s in full cry, an’ it look like to Johnny that the cow would shorely have a fit.

“When night come,” Mr. Wall continued, throwing another pine-knot into the fire, “Johnny got some milk for his supper, an’ then he went to bed. He helt the acorn to his ear for to tell the little chap good-night.

“‘Don’t put me on the shelf,’ says Ningapie, ’an’ don’t put me on the floor.’

“‘Why?’ says Johnny, in a whisper.

“‘Bekaze the rats might git me,’ says Ningapie.

“‘Well,’ says Johnny, ‘I’ll let you sleep on my piller.’

“Some time in the night Johnny felt sump’n run across the foot of his bed. He wuz wide awake in a minit, but he kept mighty still, bekaze he wuz skeer’d. Presently he felt sump’n jump up on his bed an’ run across it. Then it popped in his head about Ningapie, an’ he felt for the acorn tell he found it.

“‘Now’s your time,’ says Ningapie. ‘Git up an’ put on your clozes quick an’ foller the little black dog.’

“Johnny jumped up, an’ was ready in three shakes of a sheep’s tail, an’ he could hear the little black dog a-caperin’ aroun’ on the floor. When he started, he took the acorn in his han’. The door opened to let him out, an’ shot itse’f when he got out, an’ then the little black dog went trottin’ down the big road. It wuz dark, but the stars wuz a-shinin’, an’ Johnny could tell by the ell-an’-yard” (the constellation of Orion) “that it wuz nigh midnight.

“They hadn’t gone fur before they come to a big white hoss a-standin’ in the road, chompin’ his bit an’ pawin’ the groun’.

“‘Mount the hoss,’ says Ningapie.

“Johnny jumped on his back, an’ the hoss went canterin’ down the road. ’Twan’t long ’fore Johnny seed a light shinin’ in the road, an’ when he got a little nigher he seed it was right in the middle of the cross roads. A fire was a-blazin’ up thar, an’ who should be a-feedin’ of it but his stepmammy? Her hair wuz a-hangin’ down, an’ she looked like ole Nick hisse’f. She wuz a-walkin’ ’roun’ the blaze, a-mumblin’ some kinder talk, an’ a-makin’ motions wi’ her han’s, an’ thar wuz a great big black cat a-walkin’ ’roun’ wi’ her, an’ a-rubbin’ up agin her, and the creetur’s tail wuz swelled up out’n all reason.

“‘Watch out, now,’ says Ningapie, ’an''hold on to your hoss.’

“When Johnny got back home he found his pappy a-waitin’ for him, an’ he looked like a new man. Then they went down into the gyarden, an’ thar they foun’ a pile of gold packed up in little boxes. Ez for the ole’oman, she never did come back. She wuz a witch, an’ Ningapie unwitched her.”

“And what become of the acorn?” asked Joe Maxwell.

“Ah, Lord!” said Mr. Wall, with a sigh, “you know how boys is. Like ez not, Johnny took an’ cracked it open wi’ a hammer for to see what kind of a creetur Ningapie wuz.”

CHAPTER VI—THE OWL AND THE BIRDS

The Gaither boy grew to be very friendly with Joe Maxwell, and he turned out to be a very pleasant companion. He was fifteen years old, but looked younger, and although he had no book-learning, he was very intelligent, having picked up a great deal of the wholesome knowledge that Nature keeps in store for those who make her acquaintance. He could read a little, and he could write his name, which he took great pride in doing, using a stick for a pen and a bed of sand for a copy-book. Walking along through the fields or woods, he would pause wherever the rains had washed the sand together, and write his name in full in letters that seemed to be wrestling with each other—“James K. Polk Gaither.” As there was another James in his family, he was called Jim-Polk Gaither.

His friendship was worth a great deal to Joe Maxwell, for there was not a bird in the woods nor a tree that he did not know the name of and something of its peculiarities, and he was familiar with every road and bypath in all the country around. He knew where the wild strawberries grew, and the chincapins and chestnuts, and where the muscadines, or, as he called them, the “bullaces,” were ripest. The birds could not hide their nests from him, nor the wild creatures escape him. He had a tame buzzard that sometimes followed him about in his rambles. He set traps for flying squirrels, and tamed them as soon as his hands touched them. He handled snakes fearlessly, and his feats with them were astounding to the town lad until Joe discovered that the serpents were not of the poisonous species. In handling highland moccasins and spreading adders, Jim-Polk confined his feats to seizing them by their tails as they ran and snapping their heads off. Whenever he killed one in this way he always hung it on a bush or tree in order, as he said, to bring rain. When it failed to rain, his explanation was that as a snake never dies until sundown, no matter how early in the morning it may be killed, it had twisted and writhed until it fell from the limb or bush on which it was hung.

Jim-Polk had many gifts and acquirements that interested Joe Maxwell. Once when the two lads were walking through the woods they saw a pair of hawks some distance away. Jim-Polk motioned to Joe to hide under a hawthorn bush. Then, doubling his handkerchief before his mouth, he began to make a curious noise—a series of smothered exclamations that sounded like hoo!—hoo!—hoo-hoo! He was imitating the cry of the swamp owl, which Joe Maxwell had never heard. The imitation must have been perfect, for immediately there was a great commotion in the woods. The smaller birds fluttered away and disappeared; but the two hawks, re-enforced by a third, came flying toward the noise with their feathers ruffled and screaming with indignation. They meant war. Jim-Polk continued his muffled cries, until presently the boys heard a crow cawing in the distance.

“Now you’ll see fun,” said young Gaither. “Just keep right still.”

The crow was flying high in the air, and would have gone over but the muffled cry of the owl—hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!—caught its ear and it paused in its flight, alighting in the top of a tall pine. Swinging in this airy outlook, it sent forth its hoarse signals, and in a few minutes the pine was black with its companions, all making a tremendous outcry. Some of them dropped down into the tops of the scrub-oaks. They could not find the owl, but they caught sight of the hawks, and sounded their war-cry. Such cawing, screaming, fluttering, and fighting Joe Maxwell had never seen before. The hawks escaped from the crows, but they left many of their feathers on the battle-field. One of the hawks did not wholly escape, for in his fright he flew out of the woods into the open, and there he was pounced on by a kingbird, which Jim-Polk called a bee martin. This little bird, not larger than his cousin, the catbird, lit on the hawk’s back and stayed there as long as they remained in sight. The commotion set up by the crows had attracted the attention of all the birds, except the smallest, and they flew about in the trees, uttering notes of anger or alarm, all trying to find the owl.

The incident was very interesting to Joe Maxwell. He discovered that the owl is the winged Ishmael of the woods, the most hated and most feared of all the birds. A few days afterward he went with Harbert to see the hogs fed, and he told the negro how all the birds seemed to hate the owl.

“Lord! yes, sah!” said Harbert, who seemed to know all about the matter. “Ain’t you never is hear tell er de tale ’bout de owl an’ de yuther birds? Ole man Remus tole it ter me dis many a year ago, an’ sence den I bin hear talk about it mo’ times dan what I got fingers an’ toes.”

Of course, Joe wanted to hear—

THE STORY OF THE OWL.

“Well, suh,” said Harbert, “hit run sorter like dis: One time way back yander, fo’ ole man Remus wuz born’d, I speck, all de birds wuz in cahoots; dem what fly in de air, an’ dem what walk on de groun’, an’ dem what swim on de water—all un um. Dey all live in one settlement, an’ whatsomever dey mought pick up endurin’ er de day, dey’d fetch it ter der place wharbouts dey live at, an’ put it wid de rest what de yuther ones bin a-ketchin’ an’ a-fetchin’.

“Dey kep’ on dis away, twel, twant long fo’ dey done save up a right smart pile er fust one thing an’ den anudder. De pile got so big dat dey ’gun ter git skeered dat some un ud come ’long whilst dey wus away an’ he’p derse’f. Bimeby some er de mo’ ’spicious ’mong um up an’ say dat somebody bin stealin’ fum de provision what dey savin’ up ginst hard times. Mr. Jaybird, he coyspon’ wid Mr. Crow, an’ Mr. Crow he coyspon’ wid Miss Chicken Hawk, and Miss Chicken Hawk she coyspon’ wid Mr. Eagle, which he was de big buckra er all de birds. An’ den dey all coyspon’ wid one anudder, an’ dey ’low dat dey bleeze ter lef’ somebody dar fer ter watch der winter wittles whiles dey er off a-huntin’ up mo’. Dey jowered an’ jowered a long time, twel, bimeby, Mr. Eagle, he up an’ say dat de bes’ dey kin do is to ’pint Mr. Owl fer ter keep watch. Mr. Owl he sorter hoot at dis, but ’tain’t do no good, kaze de yuthers, dey say dat all Mr. Owl got ter do is ter sleep mo’ endurin’ er de night an’ stay ’wake endurin’ er de day.

“So, den,” Harbert went on, pausing as if trying to remember the thread of the story, “dey ’pinted Mr. Owl fer ter keep watch, an’ dey all flewd off, some one way an’ some anudder. Mr. Owl, he tuck his seat, he did, whar he kin take in a right smart stretch er country wid his big eyeball, an’ he sot dar right peart. But bimeby he’gun ter git lonesome. Dey want nobody ter talk ter, an’ de sun shine so bright dat he bleeze ter shet his eye, an’ ’fo’ he know what he doin’ he wuz a settin’ dar noddin’ same ez a nigger by a hick’ry fire. Every once in a while he’d ketch hissef an’ try ter keep ’wake, but, do what he would, he can’t keep his eye open, an’ bimeby he snap his mouf like he mad an’ den he slapped his head under his wing an’ dropped off ter sleep good fashion. Kaze when a bird git his head under his wing hit’s des de same ez gwine ter bed an’ pullin’ de kiver ’roun’ yo’ years.

“Well, suh, dar he wuz, settin’ up fast asleep. ’Long in de co’se er de day, Mr. Crow an’ Mr. Jaybird, dey struck up wid one annuder out in de woods, an’ dey sot down in a popular-tree fer to carry on a confab. Dey done bin coy-spon’ wid one anudder an’ dey bofe bin pullin’ up corn. Mr. Crow’low ter Mr. Jaybird dat he ain’t so mighty certain an’ shore ’bout Mr. Owl, kaze he mighty sleepy-headed. Wid dat, Mr. Jaybird, he up an’ say dat he got dat ve’y idee in his min’. Dey sot dar an’ swop talk’bout Mr. Owl, twel, atter while, dey’gree ter go back fer de settlement an’ see what Mr. Owl doin’.

“Well, suh, dey went dar, an’ dar dey foun’ ’im. Yasser! Mr. Owl sholy wuz dar. He wuz settin’ up on a lim’ wid his head flung under his wing, an’ ’twuz all dey kin do fer ter wake ’im up. Dey hollered at ’im des loud ez dey kin, an’ bimeby he woke up an’ tuck his head out from under his wing an’ look at um des ez solium ez a camp-meetin’ preacher. Dey ’buze ’im—dey quoiled—dey call ’im out’n his name—dey jowered at ’im—but tain’t do no good. He des sot dar, he did, an’ look at um, an’ he ain’t say nuthin’ ’tall. Dis make Mr. Crow an’ Mr. Jaybird mighty mad, kaze when folks quoil an’ can’t git nobody for ter quoil back at um, it make um wusser mad dan what dey wuz at fust. Dat night when de yuther birds come home, Mr. Crow an’ Mr. Jaybird, dey had a mighty tale ter tell. Some b’lieved um an’ some didn’t b’lieve um. Miss Jenny Wren, an’ Mr. Jack Sparrow, an’ Miss Cat Bird, dey b’lieved um, an’ dey went on so twel de yuther birds can’t hear der own years, skacely. But de big birds, dey sorter helt off, an’ say dey gwine ter give Mr. Owl anudder chance.

“Well, suh, dey give Mr. Owl two mo’ trials, let alone one, an’ eve’y time dey lef ’im dar fer ter watch an’ gyard, dey’d fin’ ’m fast asleep. An’ dat ain’t all; dey skivered dat somebody done bin slippin’ in an’ totin’ off der provisions.

“Dat settle de hash fer Mr. Owl. De birds sot a day an’ fotch Mr. Owl up fer ter stan’ trial, an’ dey laid down de law dat fum dat time forrud dat Mr. Owl shan’t go wid de yuther birds, an’ dat de nex’ time dey kotch ’im out de word wuz ter be give, an’ dey wuz all ter fall foul un ’im an’ frail’m out. Den dey say dat when he sleep he got ter sleep wid bofe eyes wide open, a’n dey lay it down dat he got ter keep watch all night long, an’ dat whensomever he hear any fuss he got ter holler out:

“’Who—who—who pesterin’ we all?’

“Dat de way de law stan’s,” continued Har-bert, placing his basket of corn on the top rail of the fence, “an dat de way it gwine ter stan’. Down ter dis day, when Mr. Owl asleep, he sleep wid his eye wide open, an’ when de yuther birds ketch him out, dey light on to ’im like folks puttin’ out fire, an’ when he ups an’ hollers in de night-time, you kin hear ’im say:

“‘Who—who—who pesterin’ we all?’”

With a laugh, in which Joe Maxwell heartily joined, Harbert turned his attention to calling his hogs, and the way he did this was as interesting to Joe as the story had been. He had a voice of wonderful strength and power, as penetrating and as melodious as the notes of a cornet. On a still day, when there was a little moisture in the air, Harbert could make himself heard two miles. The range over which the hogs roamed was at least a mile and a half from the pen. In calling them the negro broke into a song. It was only the refrain that the distant hogs could hear, but as it went echoing over the hills and valleys it seemed to Joe to be the very essence of melody. The song was something like this:

HOG-FEEDER S SONG.

Oh, rise up, my ladies, lissen unter me,

Gwoop! Gwoop! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!

I’m a-gwine dis night fer ter knock along er you.

Gwoop! Gwoop! Gee-woop! Goo-whoo!

Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!

Oh, de stars look bright des like dey gwineter fall,

En’way todes sundown you hear de killdee call:

Stee-wee! Killdee! Pig-goo! Pig-gee!

Pig! Pig! Pig-goo! Pig! Pig! Pig-gee!

De blue barrer squeal kaze he can’t squeeze froo,

En he hump up he back, des like niggers do—

Oh, humpty-umpty blue! Pig-gee! Pig-goo!

Pig! Pig! Pig-gee! Pig! Pig! Pig-goo!

Oh, rise up, my ladies! Lissen unter me!

Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!

I’m a-gwine dis night a gallantin’ out wid you!

Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-hoo!

Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!

Ole sow got sense des ez sho’s youer bo’n

‘Kaze she tak’n hunch de baskit fer ter shatter out co’n—

Ma’am, you makes too free! Pig-goo! Pig-gee!

Pig! Pig! Pig-goo! Pig! Pig! Pig-gee!

W’en de pig git fat he better stay close,

‘Kaze fat pig nice fer ter hide out en’ roas’—

En he taste mighty good in de barbecue!

Oh, roas’ pig, shoo! ‘N-yum! dat barbecue!

Pig! Pig! Pig-gee! Pig! Pig! Pig-goo!

Oh, rise up, my ladies! Lissen unter me:

Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!

I’m a-gwine dis night fer ter knock aroun’ wid you!

Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whoo!

Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!

“Marse Joe,” said Harbert, after he had counted the hogs to see that none were missing, “I got sumpin’ at my house fer you. I’m layin’ off fer ter fetch it dis ve’y night.”

“What is it?” asked Joe.

“Tain’t much,” said Harbert. “Des some ’simmon beer an’ some ginger-cake.”

“I’m very much obliged to you,” said Joe.

“Oh, ’tain’t me,” said Harbert, quickly. “I was puttin’ up de carriage-horses las’ night when I hear somebody callin’ me, an’ I went ter de fence, an’ dar wuz a nigger’oman wid a jug in one han’ an’ a bundle in de udder, an’ she say dar wuz some ’simmon beer an’ some ginger-cakes, an’ she up an’ ax me would I be so compleasant fer to give um ter Marse Joe Maxwell, an’ I ’lowed dat I’d be so compleasant.”

“Who was the woman?” Joe asked.

“She some kin ter Mink,” answered Harbert, evasively.

“Well, what kin?” asked Joe.

“She ain’t so mighty much kin, needer,” said Harbert. “She des his wife. She ’low dat ef you got any washin’ er darnin’ dat you want done she be glad ter do it, an’ den I say, ‘Shoo nigger ’oman! G’way fum here! What you speck my wife here fer?’”

Here Harbert tried to look indignant, but failed. Presently he continued: “Dat are ’simmon beer got sign in it.”

“What sign is that?” asked Joe.

“Well, suh, when ’simmonses is ripe hit’s a shore sign dat ’possum ready ter eat, an’ tain’t gwine ter be long ’fo’ you hear me a-hollerin’ ’roun’ thoo de woods, mo’ speshually if I kin git holt er dem dogs what dat Gaither boy got. When it come ter ’possum an’ coon dey er de outdoin’est dogs you ever is lay yo’ eyes on.”

“I can get the dogs any time,” said Joe.

“Well, suh,” said Harbert with enthusiasm, “atter to-night you can’t git um too soon.”

CHAPTER VII—OLD ZIP COON

Jim-Polk Gaither was very glad to go hunting with Joe Maxwell, having taken a strong boyish liking to the lad, and so one Saturday evening he came over to the Turner place with his dogs, Jolly and Loud. They were large, fine-looking hounds, and Joe examined them with interest. Their color was black and tan, and each had two little yellow spots over his eyes. Loud was the heavier of the two, and Jim-Polk explained that he had “the best nose” and the best voice, and yet he declared that in some respects Jolly was the best dog.

Harbert had already prepared for the hunt, and he soon made his appearance with an axe and a bundle of fat twine to be used for torches.

“Now, then,” said Jim-Polk, “what kind of game do you want? Shall it be ’possum or coon?”

“Dat’s for Marse Joe to say,” said Harbert,

“These are mighty funny dogs,” explained Jim-Polk. “If you start out wi’ a light, they’ll hunt ’possums all night long. If you go into the woods an’ fetch a whoop or two before you strike a light, they won’t notice no ’possum; but you better believe they’ll make old Zip Coon lift hisself off’n the ground. So whichever you want you’ll have to start out right.”