January 1.
On the rice plantation the first of January is the time for the yearly
powwow, which the negroes regard as a necessary function. It is always
a trial to me, for I never know what may turn up, and the talk requires
great tact and patience on my part, not more, I suppose, however, than
any other New Year's reception. One is so apt to forget that the "patte
de velours" which every one uses in polite society is even more of a
help in dealing with the most ignorant, and makes life easier to all
parties.
Saturday, January 2.
I went down to Casa Bianca for the important talk. I found two more
families had been seized by the town fever. Every year more hands leave
the plantations and flock to the town, and every year more funerals wend
their slow way from the town to the country; for though they all want to
live in town, none is so poor but his ashes must be taken "home"; that
is, to the old plantation where his parents and grandparents lived and
died and lie waiting the final summons. I met such a procession to-day,
an ox-cart bearing the long wooden box, containing the coffin, and
sitting on top of it the chief women mourners, veiled in crêpe; behind,
one or two buggies, each containing more people than it was intended
to carry; then behind that a long, straggling line of friends on foot,
all wearing either black or white, for their taste forbids the wearing
of any color at a funeral. The expense of a railroad journey does not
deter them from bringing their dead "home." The whole family unite and
"trow een" to make up the sum necessary to bring the wanderer home, and
even the most careless and indifferent of the former owners respect the
feeling and consent to have those who have been working elsewhere for
years, and who perhaps left them in the lurch on some trying occasion,
laid to rest in the vine-covered graveyard on the old plantation.
[Illustration: The yearly powwow at Casa Bianca.]
Two years ago, a man and his wife, of whom I thought a great deal, who
had been married and who had lived always at Casa Bianca, left me to go
to town. They had prospered and bought the usual progression—oxen, cows,
a horse, and finally a house and lot in the county town, Gregory. This
house they rented out for several years, and then the desire came to go
and occupy and enjoy the house and give up the laborious rice planting.
It seemed very natural, and though I was very sorry to part with them
I could not say a word against the plan. Dan and Di were both splendid
specimens of physical health and far above the average in intelligence,
capacity, and fidelity. They went well provided, according to their
standards. With his horse and wagon Dan supported his family in comfort,
hauling wood, etc., while Di opened a little shop in one of her front
rooms, which was well patronized, as their house was on the outskirts
and far from the shopping street.
One afternoon, some months after their move, Di said to Dan: "I'm dat
sleepy I haf tu lay down, but call me sho' befo' de sun set." She left
Dan smoking his pipe on the little porch, where, about an hour later,
the youngest child came to him for something, and he said, "Go ax
yo' Ma, 'e toll me tu wake um fo' de sun go down." The baby went and
returned reporting, "Ma 'oudn't answer me." Dan went in to find her
dead. He brought her home to the plantation, and in a few months his
son brought him also, to rest under the moss-laden live oaks.
This is only one instance out of many; those accustomed to regular
outdoor work cannot stand the confinement and relaxation of town life.
But back to the powwow at Casa Bianca. The two families who are moving
to town carry off four young girls who are splendid workers, and very
necessary to the cultivation of my "wages fields." Two of the men
announce they are tired of renting and want to go "on contraak." This
I do not quite understand, as they always sign a paper promising to do
all that is required on the place, which I have considered a contract;
and I am a good deal amused over their efforts to explain, when at last
Marcus, the foreman, says to them: "De lady aint onde'stan', kase he
neber wuk contrak, but I will make she sensible," which he proceeded
to do with great delicacy. I found it simply was to work entirely for
wages and not rent, and I was expected to give each one a half acre of
rice land to plant, in addition to their house and large garden free of
rent, in return for which they were to sign "contraak." It is impossible
to show by the writing the funny emphasis which they put on the last
syllable of this word.
[Illustration: "Four young girls who are splendid workers."]
The two hands were poor renters, so that the present arrangement is
perfectly satisfactory to me, only the portion of land rented grows
smaller year by year, and where is it to end? I cannot plant more land
on wages than I do, for it costs $15 per acre, besides the keeping of
the banks and trunks on the whole 200 acres. Last year there were ten
acres less than the year before, and this year there will be twenty-five
acres less than in 1903. Besides this, the plantation to the north of
Casa Bianca, whose lands adjoin, has been practically abandoned, so that
the water rushes down through its broken river bank on my fields, and
I have to go to a heavy outlay to keep it out.
Marcus asked me to go round the bank with him, and after thinking it
well over I have concluded to throw out three of my fields and make up
a straight bank from the upland down to the Black River, a distance of
half a mile, high, wide, and strong enough to act as a river bank, and
resist the rushing water which comes with immense force in the Black
River, for it is the deepest stream in this section, in many places 60
or 70 feet deep. It will cost a lot, and I do not know where the money
is to come from; but if I do not make the stand against the water, I
shall not be able to plant anything, and this is the place from which
I derive my income.
"He that regardeth the clouds shall neither sow nor reap." This text
is my great stand-by when things look stormy and I am discouraged. I
suppose the rushing river may be considered as in some sort a relation,
or at any rate a remote descendant, of the clouds, and I will not
regard it, but give Marcus an order to go to work on the bank as soon
as possible.
The week after this visit I was sent for by the foreman at Casa Bianca.
When I went down, I found every one in a state of unrest and ferment.
Nat, one of the renters, had told the others that he had made a special
arrangement with me by which he was to do only what he wished to
do. Now, one would suppose that no sane person would believe such a
statement as this, but I had been seen talking to Nat apart, and they
were all prepared to throw up their agreement and go—"contraak" hands
and all. It was some time before I found out what the matter was, for
even Marcus was entirely upset and talked mysterious nonsense before he
finally gave me the key to the situation. I then assembled all the men
and told Nat to recount what he had said to me on that occasion and what
I had said to him. He pretended to have forgotten. So I related: "You
told me your mother wanted to move to town and take your three sisters
with her, so that your working force would be diminished, and you would
not be able to rent as much this year as you had done, and you would
want only eight instead of twelve acres. I told you I was sorry your
mother was going, for though she herself no longer worked the girls
were good hands. Then I asked you if you remembered when your mother
first came to me. You were a very little boy; she was in great distress,
having been turned away from the place where she was living, with her
large family of little children. All her things had been put out in the
road because she had been fighting, and she entreated me to give her
a house to stay in. I told her I heard that she was a 'mighty warrior'
and stirred up strife wherever she went. But she promised not to 'war'
any more, so I gave her a house and she kept her promise, prospered,
brought up her large family respectably, and now owned much 'proppity,'
cows, oxen, and pigs, and everything she wanted; and the children had
all grown up healthy and happy, and I only hoped they might retain their
health of soul and body in town."
They all listened attentively while Nat punctuated my narration with
"Yes, ma'am," at every comma. Then I said: "Did I say anything more to
you, Nat?" "No, ma'am; dat's all." Then indignation broke out on Nat
from the assembled hands. "En yo' tole all dem lie fo' mek we fool! I
mos' bin gone way," and much more, all talking at once. Nat only looked
foolish and said: "I jes' bin a fun." I gave him a serious talk, and the
hands scattered in high good humor; but if I had not gone down that day,
in all probability the whole party would have packed up their household
goods in their ox-carts and left, "contraak" hands and all! Marcus said,
with his usual dignity: "Myself, ma'am, bin most turn stupid"—as though
no words could express more fully the seriousness of the situation.
[Illustration: She promised not to war any more.]
March 12.
Since then things have gone very comfortably and quietly at Casa Bianca.
The field I am to plant in April has been well ploughed, the ditches
cleaned, and finally the division bank made up splendidly. Across the
canal and down to the river it is one foot above "full moon tide." I
have twenty-six fine lambs, born in January. At Cherokee, also, I have
had some good work done. My "wages field" there was ploughed early in
February, so that the frost has had a chance to mellow it. I have ten
acres of fine oats growing and ten acres prepared for corn; pigs, cows,
and everything doing well, except the lambs. Nine were born in January,
but some "varmint," Bonaparte reports, has killed seven. I know the
"varmint" is a dog, somebody's treasure, so that it cannot be convicted,
and every other animal is suspected,—fox, wildcat; and many strange
tracks are talked of.
At Cherokee I had to put down a new trunk, which is quite a business.
It requires knowledge of a certain kind, but is very simple, like most
things, to those who know. To me it seems a terrible undertaking, for if
it is badly done, the trunk may blow out when the field is planted, and
ruin the crop. Knowing so little as I do, I thought it best to leave it
to Bonaparte, so I did not go over to the place, which is about a mile
away through winding creeks.
The tide suited the morning, January 12, and the weather was mild. I
waited with great anxiety for the return of the hands in the evening.
I rushed down to the barnyard when I heard the boat, and asked if the
trunk was well down. Bonaparte smiled in his superior way.
"Well, no, ma'am; de fac' is we neber did git de ole trunk out."
"What," I said, "you have left it half done?"
"Oh, no, ma'am. We bruk up de ole trunk an' tuk out all but de bottom."
"Then the water is rushing through to-night, making the gulf wider and
wider?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I was speechless. There was no use saying anything, but I decided to
go over the next day and use my common sense, if I had no knowledge.
Bonaparte told me he could not get the hands, any of them, to go down
in the water, and no trunk can be buried with dry feet.
[Illustration: "Myself, ma'am, bin most stupid."]
The next morning, January 13, I went, carrying lunch and a bottle of
home-made wine, with a stick in it for those who were to get wet. It
was a beautiful bright day, with the thermometer at 50 at 9 o'clock, for
which I was very thankful. The tide was not low enough for anything to
be done until then. I had had three flatloads of mud cut and put on the
bank, and everything was at hand. The getting up of the bottom planks
was at last accomplished, and then the new trunk floated in to place
on the last of the ebb, so that it settled itself into its new bed on
the low water, and then the filling up was a perfect race, so much mud
to be put in before the tide began to rise, besides the inclination
of the bank to cave in. I kept urging the two men down in the gulf to
pack the fresh mud well as it was thrown in. The stringpiece and ground
logs which Bonaparte had provided were, according to my ideas, entirely
inadequate, and I sent four hands to an island near by to cut larger,
heavier pieces. Altogether, the day was one of the most exciting and
interesting I ever spent, though I stood six hours on the top of a pile
of mud on a small piece of plank, where I had to balance myself with
care to look into the gulf and not topple over. It was black dark when
we left the trunk, but the mud was well packed, with every appearance
of solidity and stability, and the next day I had two more flatloads
of mud put on, and, though a freshet has come and gone since, "she" has
not stirred; and the field drains beautifully.
The company which planted the places next to Cherokee has broken up.
One of the principal investors told me that he had had his money in it
for seven years, and never got a cent of interest, and he was thankful
to get out of it. They have taken all my best hands, one by one, but
they have not succeeded—did not make money for all that. And this year
the price of rice has gone down, so that what has been made brings only
half of what was hoped for.
I believe these lands would make a great deal if we understood the
cutting and curing of hay, for the grass grows most luxuriantly if
the land is ploughed and left, but the curing of hay is unknown to the
rice-field darky.
Our uplands are very fertile and adapted to any crop, it seems. Last
year a few tried cotton and did very well without any commercial
fertilizer. The only trouble is the nice cultivation cotton requires. I
had a little planted. We did very well and sold at 15½, but I am afraid
to plant more than an acre or two, as I cannot get it kept clean, which
is essential to cotton.
The freshet, which we always look for after the melting of the snows in
the mountains, has not yet come. We had one a month ago, but now it has
subsided, and the rush of preparation for planting should go on; but
I find it impossible to enthuse my renters. A lethargy seems to have
fallen upon them, and if I only had the money, I would plant all the
available land myself. But that is a very big if, and I must just have
patience and try to rouse their energy. Above me there are only a very
few acres planted, as the freshet is more disastrous the higher up the
river you go. About two miles above me is a historic plantation, where
Marion made a very narrow escape from his British pursuers by jumping
into a canoe and pushing up a small creek, while the British, after some
delay in getting a boat, rowed, as they thought, after him, but followed
the bold, wide stream of the Thoroughfare, which took them rapidly away
from him.
This is the home of a very remarkable woman, who has, by her own
exertions, educated her sisters and brothers and paid off the mortgage
on the plantation. The family was wealthy and accustomed to the liberal
use of money, but when the end of the war came, they found themselves
with nothing but the land, not a cent to plant or to buy food. This
young girl received a present of a small sum of money from a relative in
England, which she invested in supplies that every one was in need of,
opened a small store, and as fast as she sold out reinvested the money;
showing wonderful cleverness and strength and perseverance. She has
been the only stay of a large family, always ready to throw herself in
the breach and pay anything that was needed. After buying the place in,
she planted successfully for one or two years. Then the freshets began,
and, after two or three very disastrous years of loss, she showed her
good judgment by giving up planting altogether, and all that splendid
rice land, under the finest, heaviest banks, is just returning to its
original condition of swamp, growing up in cypress. She has land also
covered with splendid timber, which must eventually be of great value,
but as yet the money value of such things has not reached us, and the
little shop continues to support a large family in their beautiful
historic home, where with lovely flowers and beautiful oaks, every fence
and hedge covered at this season with the glowing, sweet-smelling yellow
jessamine, she leads a useful, contented, beautiful life, a blessing to
all around.
[Illustration]
I mentioned in my last letter that I had lost my good Jim, who had been
with me fifteen years. I tried in vain to fill his place, but there was
no one to be had that was reliable; so I got a mountaineer in August,
paying his way down from the Blue Ridge. He promised well, but on the
fifth day he was seized with nostalgia, and I had to drive him the
eighteen miles to the railroad and put him on a train to return to his
beloved mountains.
I would have had to return the eighteen miles alone on the road had
I not met Jim, who was as pleased to see me as I was to see him; for
the town life which his wife so loves is odious to Jim, and he asked
permission to return to me until I got some one.
Being a person not easily daunted, I again engaged a mountaineer, not
finding it possible to get a good darky, paid his way down and had Jim
show him all his duties, the roads, etc., and he seemed a very hopeful
person; and Jim returned to the hated town, satisfied as to my having
competent help. Mountaineer number two showed no trace of homesickness
for four months; but then suddenly, one day, it took him. It was no
surprise to me. I knew it would come, and had got a black boy as help
in case of emergency; so that when the attack came, I had Jake get
the wagon and drive us to town, and I put mountaineer number two on
the train. Then I increased Jake's wages and put him in charge of the
stable.
Last week when I went to Casa Bianca to pay off, I took a niece and
her two children, who were staying with me, and we had a very pleasant
picnic dinner. The four-year-old children had never been in the country,
and enjoyed everything, especially the lambs. Jake's home is about 300
yards from Casa Bianca avenue, and at 12 o'clock I told him that he
could go and see his mother for two hours, and that I wanted to leave at
3:30 o'clock. Jake, however, did not return till 5:30 o'clock, though I
sent after him; and, in his hurry, instead of calling the horses, which
had been turned out on the lawn to enjoy the beautiful pasture, he ran
them. Some one had left the gate open, and they dashed through it and
never stopped running till they reached the gate at Cherokee, eight
miles away, leaving me with my party of city friends, the sun setting
and no horses to take us home!
Two men on the place owned horses, but they were turned out and could
not be got up for some time. Besides, one was a terrible kicker and
the other a runaway. I had to act quickly. I said to the old watchman:
"Go and tell the man with the fastest ox-team on the place to come here
with his cart at once." In a very short time Nat appeared with a large
black ox in a little cart of wonderful construction. I did not see how
it was possible for a lady, two children, and a maid to get into it;
but, apparently, it was the best that could be done. They had walked
on, and I told Nat to go as fast as possible and pick up as many of
the party as he could carry, and I would follow, as soon as the kicking
horse could be put into a buggy, and take the rest. He assured me his
cart could carry all, and went off at a rapid trot. After what seemed
an age, Marcus came with his kicker, and with the wraps, lunch basket,
and other encumbrances I got in and drove rapidly after the party,
which was the funniest looking in the world; Nat running alongside and
flourishing an immense cowhide lash, A. and the maid seated on a board
which was balanced on the sides of the little structure so as to make
a seat, the little boy sitting behind with his feet dangling and the
little girl tightly clasped in her mother's arms. They had gone four
miles in this wonderful fashion. As soon as we caught them, I made A.
get out and take the children in the buggy, while I climbed into the
ox jumper with the maid and told Marcus to drive home as quickly as
possible, as the children should not have been out so late. I had been
utterly wretched till I came up with them and found them all unharmed.
Then my spirits rose and bubbled over. It struck me that the others
were a little quiet, but I never knew the reason until we were all
safely enjoying our evening meal. The maid was supposed to be driving,
while A. held the little girl and Nat goaded on the ox, and at a very
rough bridge the ox stumbled, the maid fell out, and the wheel ran over
her, leaving the rest of the party without any hold on the big black
ox! A most tragic situation, and such a mercy no one was hurt. It was
very good of them not to tell me until afterward, and it was truly
magnanimous of the maid to remark to Nat as she extricated herself from
the ingenious contrivance, which he had constructed himself: "It surely
is the handiest little vehicle I ever did see."
[Illustration: A rice field "flowed."]
Saturday. I suddenly awoke to the fact after breakfast this morning that
I had a note which was due at the bank to-day. It was pouring, and if I
sent a check by mail, it would not be received until Monday, as the mail
gets in after business hours. I called Dab and asked him if he thought
he could walk down to Gregory and take an important letter to the bank
before 2 o'clock. He answered promptly that he could. I got the letter
ready and told him he could spend the night with his sisters and return
by 1 o'clock to-morrow. He started armed with a large package of lunch
and with my best umbrella and a dollar to spend. While I was taking my
tea at 6 o'clock, to my surprise Dab walked in with a letter. He said
Mr. S— gave him the answer and he thought he had better not go anywhere
with that important letter, and so he had come straight back home! I was
so pleased and cheered by this evidence of his sense of responsibility
and fidelity to a trust. I had felt ill and miserable all day. I told
him how pleased I was and thanked him heartily and told Chloe to give
him a very fine supper after his walk of twenty-eight miles.
Sunday. I went to church this morning feeling very down, which was
wicked, for God's goodness is always there. When I looked around our
little church, where a literal Scriptural quorum of two or three was
gathered together, my eye was gladdened by the sight of a charming new
suit of reseda cloth with a heliotrope toque! Then across the aisle I
saw a cinnamon brown suit with a hat to match! Positively my spirits
rose at once.
We are so accustomed to our mourning-clad congregation, nearly every one
of us wearing black, we all know each other's very respectable costumes
from year to year and watch with interest the successful and often
ingenious remodelling of sleeves—I being the only recalcitrant who will
not cut over sleeves, feeling sure that they will come back into vogue
(which they always do before the faithful garment is laid to rest)—we
never expect anything so astonishing as a brand-new tailor-made suit,
and in colors too, and now to have the eye refreshed by two, is cause
for rejoicing.
On Monday, April 18, I planted the wages field at Cherokee. Here we
cannot so well use the machines, so I have the field sown by hand. I
am planting mill-threshed rice in this field, which is an experiment on
my part. In the autumn a buyer for a large rice mill in North Carolina
came to make an offer for my rice; and he spoke of the "superstition,"
as he called it, of planters in this state that only hand-whipped rice
could be planted to make good crops. He said the large crops made in
Texas and Louisiana, which are practically ruining the rice industry in
this section by keeping down the price, are the result of mill-threshed
rice—none other is known or thought of. This made a great impression on
me, for the whipping by hand is a very expensive process, more so than
the actual cost of the work, because it gives such unlimited opportunity
for stealing.
I had the habit formerly of planting twenty-five acres and dividing the
rice; twelve and a half acres I sent to the threshing mill in a lighter,
the other twelve and a half I had taken into the barnyard, stacked, and
when thoroughly cured, had it whipped out for seed. The half sent to
mill always turned out from twenty-five to thirty-five bushels to the
acre; the part saved for seed turned out from fifteen to twenty bushels
to the acre.
That happened several years in succession. I never have had a field
hand-whipped turn out over twenty bushels to the acre, and I have seldom
had one threshed in the mill until these last very bad years turn out
under thirty.
All of this made me determine to try planting mill-threshed rice this
year. I planted a small portion in a bowl of water on cotton, which is
the approved way of trying seed, and nearly every single seed germinated
and shot up a fine healthy leaf. So I felt no hesitation about it; and
I began with my wages field, putting half a bushel more to the acre in
case there should be some grains cracked in the mill. I went over early
to the field and sat on the bank all day, while Bonaparte and Abram
followed the sowers.
The women are very graceful as they sow the rice with a waving movement
of the hands, at the same time bending low so that the wind may not
scatter the grain; and a good sower gets it all straight in the furrow.
Their skirts are tied up around their hips in a very picturesque
style, and as they walk they swing in a wonderful way. This peculiar
arrangement allows room for one or two narrow sacks (under the skirt),
which can hold a peck of rice, and some of the sowers, if weighed on the
homeward trip, would be found to have gained many pounds. They are all
very gentle and considerate in their manner to-day, for a great sorrow
has fallen on the family. Their tender, sympathetic manner is more to
me than many bushels of rice, and I turn my back when they are dipping
it out.
I have offered hand-whipped rice for sale at $1.30 a bushel, and
mill-threshed at $1 per bushel, and have sold 159 bushels of the former
and 225 bushels of the latter, which has been a great help. We have made
a fine start on the upland crop, and the corn looks very well. The small
acreage planted in cotton also looks well, and I hope it will be worked
properly while I am gone.
May 9.
Left Cherokee for a month's absence, and drove to Gregory to take the
through train to Washington, where I arrived the next morning in time
for breakfast. I have a duty which calls me away. It was a pity to have
to leave now, for the people had just become roused to an interest
in preparing the land for their crop, and it is the first propitious
season we have had for three years with no spring freshet, and I hope
to get about 100 acres planted at Cherokee. I feel better satisfied
to leave since Jim has returned to work with me and will take entire
charge of the upland crop. His health suffered in the confinement of the
town work. He was in bed a good deal of the time, and, what with lost
time and doctor's bills, his wife found they were worse off instead of
better, and finally, after nine months, she begged him to come and ask
me to take him back, which I gladly did, and he has gone to work with
enthusiasm.
While away, I visited Washington, Mount Vernon, Baltimore, and New York,
and was much impressed by the immense strides made in every way since my
last visit. The increase of wealth and luxury, the fact that simplicity
of life is becoming impossible even to those who would prefer it, the
rush and the hurry which one cannot avoid, the tyranny of fashion which
no one seems able to shake off—all of these things amazed me. My good
black Chloe once surprised me by saying: "You know, Miss Patience, ef yu
aint een de fashi'n yu may's well be dead!" But Chloe follows at such
a very respectful distance that the "fashi'n" so vital to her at this
moment is a watered form of what was worn in New York four years ago.
Still, I recognize in it the same note which I find dominant wherever
I go and which is to me incomprehensible—it doesn't seem to me very
self-respecting to feel obliged to follow some one else's taste so
absolutely. One's eye naturally turns toward the changes of mode which
are pretty, but to feel bound to follow simply because fashion decrees,
I do not understand.
I saw many things that interested me greatly. One evening I was walking
back to the St. Denis about 10:30 when my escort said: "That scarcely
seems possible at this season." "What?" I asked. He pointed to a closely
pressed row of men in a single file, on the edge of the pavement,
one immediately behind the other in perfect order: decently dressed,
respectable-looking men. It had a strange look to me, and I asked the
meaning of it. "That's the Fleischman line." This conveyed nothing to
me. "It is a great bakery here, which for years has distributed every
night at twelve all the bread left over from the day's bake, one loaf
to each man. I know that in winter the line extends many blocks, but at
this season I am surprised to see such a line at this hour; it will be
twice as long by midnight." My heart just stood still as I looked at it.
That so many men, looking so respectable, could need a loaf of bread,
and wait silently, patiently for hours together seemed impossible to
me. Where I live there is no hunger, no want; life is so easy, food so
plentiful. A few hours' work daily feeds a man and his family.
One day Jim was driving to town to spend Sunday with his family, and the
next day he told me that he had met an old woman on the road going from
one plantation to another. She seemed half blind and looked so miserable
that he stopped and asked her where she was going, and offered to take
her there in the wagon, as he had to pass right by. He helped her in and
she told him she was very hungry—had eaten nothing since the day before.
"Oh," I said, "Jim, did you give her something to eat?"
"I didn't have nothing to eat with me, ma'am, but the sticks of candy
you giv me to take to my chillun; but I giv her them, en you never see
any one so please'." Then he went on to say:—
"It seems to me sence I ken remember this is the first person I ever
seen real hungry."
"You mean you have never met a hungry person on the road before?"
"I never met none on the road nor never seen none nowhere that was
perishin' with hunger."
I was scarcely surprised, for my mother always at Christmas told her
man servant to find out the poor and those needing food that she might
supply it. The old man always reported that there was no one he could
find in need of food, but plenty to whom a present of tea and coffee
would be most acceptable, and to these the packages of sugar, coffee,
tea, and tobacco always went.
The next thing I wish to mention is my visit to the Agricultural
Department in Washington. I went in search of information as to the
planting of alfalfa, and the use of the impregnated soil, which is said
almost to insure success. That is the crop to which I look with much
hope for our uplands, and I have much at heart to take in a beautifully
drained area of thirty acres which has been pastured for some years and
plant it eventually all in alfalfa. At first I could not get more than
ten acres in fine enough condition, I suppose; but all that I can plant
this year I wish to. I have already bought the wire to enclose it, which
is a heavy outlay, and had the cedar posts got out, so that it will not
cost much to get the fence put up; but I have no proper disk harrows
and cultivators to put the soil in the best condition, and the outlay is
too heavy to venture on buying them, so I will do the best I can with my
old-fashioned implements and plant a heavy crop of cow-peas on the land
as a preparation for the alfalfa, which I will not plant till September.
It was a great pleasure and satisfaction to find men of intelligence
and education whose whole time is devoted to the effort to promote the
productiveness of soil everywhere, and to find them willing, I may say
eager, to assist me in every way. All the information was given in a
brief and yet courteous way that was a great boon to me, and the reading
matter furnished me by them on the subject will make it plain sailing,
if only I succeed in getting good seed; and the impregnated soil, I
believe, will prove a blessing to this section and solve many problems.
On my return after a very hot journey I reached Gregory at 10 o'clock
at night and drove to a pineland two miles away, where I was most
hospitably received and spent a delightfully cool night. The heat in
Washington and New York had been extraordinary for the season. The next
morning I attended to my business in Gregory and started on my homeward
drive of twenty miles about 10 o'clock. I drove first to Casa Bianca,
where the June rice wages field of twenty-six acres was being planted.
I found Marcus and the hands in fine spirits. The April rice was very
fine, they said, especially the River Wragg, though Marcus told me it
was suffering greatly from the need of hoeing, but he could not stop
the preparation of the land for the June planting to hoe it out. This
trouble is due to the moving of so many of the young people last winter
to town. They were all good hoe hands and there is no one to take their
place. The men now think it beneath them to handle a hoe; that they
consider a purely feminine implement; the plough alone is man's tool.
I stayed at Casa Bianca until 3 and then drove to Cherokee, where
everything had a very different aspect. When I drove into the barnyard,
after the usual exchange of politeness with Bonaparte as to the health
of each member of the family, I asked him how the rice crop looked. He
laughed in a scornful way and said: "W'y, ma'am, I may's well say der
ain't none." "No crop, Bonaparte; what do you mean?" He continued to
smile in his superior way, and the hands standing round chimed in: "Yu'
right, Uncle Bonaparte, you may's well say dey's none, we fiel' ain'
got none tall een um, 'tis dat mill trash rice; you kin see de rice dead
een de row wid de long sprout on um, all dead." I answered quickly, "If
the seed is dead with a long sprout on it, that proves conclusively that
the seed was not to blame; if the seed had been defective, it would not
have sprouted. There was a good stand in Varunreen; before I left, the
sprout water had been drawn." "Well, ma'am, dey ain't nun dey now to
speak of." "How is the tide now?" "Most high water now, ma'am." "Get my
boat out at once and I will go over and see for myself."
[Illustration: The hoe they consider purely a feminine implement.]
While they were getting the boat one of the hands asked me to give him
seed to replant his land. "What is the use if you think the seed is
bad?" "We want you fer buy mo' seed. Col. Naples got seed fu' a dollar
en forty cent a bushel." I told him I had no money to buy more seed;
I was willing to give them more of the same rice which I had if they
wished to replant, but that was all I could do.
I got into my little white canoe, which I call the "Whiting," and had
Bill, one of the most pessimistic renters, to row me down the river. The
tide was high. I was able to step out on the bank without any sticking
in the mud, which makes it such a horrid trip when the tide is low. I
was greatly relieved at sight of the field. There was plenty of rice
in it, as I pointed out to Bill as he walked round the bank behind me.
The rice was stunted and growing poorly, and upon inquiry I found that
it had been dry during the month I was away. Though not a drop of rain
had fallen in that time, it had not been moistened by letting the water
into the ditches, as it should have been from time to time. That would
have made all the difference in the growth of the rice; but foreman,
trunk minder, and hands were all so sure it could never make a crop,
being mill-threshed seed, that they have not given it a chance, content
to declare loudly that there is no rice in the field.
I am greatly comforted by the sight of it, for there is plenty of rice
there to make thirty bushels to the acre should no disaster come to
it; and I get into the little "Whiting" with a quieter mind, though
still greatly distressed about the hands' rice. The row back is most
refreshing, there is such a breeze, but the sun having gone down
suddenly, the damp chills me, for I had not thought of taking a wrap,
it was so hot when I left the wagon. I give orders to Bonaparte to have
the field hoed out at once so that the water can be put on as soon as
possible. Then I interview the trunk minder, whose business it is to
water the rice, and ask the meaning of this talk of there being no rice
in the rented fields. He begins about mill-threshed seed, but I show
him the glass dish of rice in which every grain had sprouted and grown
vigorously. The sight of this seems to confuse him. Then he mentions
that he had got a bushel from me "to plant out to his house een a
bottom," and that he never saw a prettier show than that patch of rice.
"Then," I say, "you see it is not the seed; you must have left that rice
exposed in some way to the hot sun just as it sprouted." "Dat's a truth,
my missis; it must be so. I did shift the water and I must ha' left it
off too long, an' the sun took effec' on de rice w'en 'e was sproutin'."
The result, however, is the same. In the three fields of rented rice
the stand is so poor, they tell me, as scarcely to warrant cultivation
further. The hands, to begin with, I am told, carried home to eat much
more than half of the rice given them to plant. They always take home
a goodly portion on the principle that a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush; but on this occasion, as it was mill-threshed rice and was
not coming anyway, and I was safely away in Washington, they scarcely
put any in the ground.
Thoroughly disheartened, I got into the wagon and drove to Peaceville,
the little pineland settlement, just as the night fell. The dogs give
me a joyful, noisy welcome and Chloe seems overjoyed to see me, while
little Imp shows every white tooth in his head and his black face
beams with joy. Chloe has a delicious supper for me, to which I do
full justice, not having eaten anything since breakfast, at 6:30. The
bungalow is very comfortable, though not much for beauty—the servants
have moved all my belongings from the plantation while I was away, and
I find everything I need except my piano and my books. The piano could
not be moved because Jim has had the team in the plough every day. They
have done very well, however, for the piazza is filled with blooming
plants, and the house looks clean and cool in its fresh white wash. The
pineland is noted for its pleasant nights, and I woke refreshed in the
morning, but to find I had taken a terrible cold in my homeward progress
on the river, I suppose.
Wednesday, June 15.
I drove down to Casa Bianca to-day to see how the rice looked and
to give orders for the bringing up of mutton weekly. I have been so
entreated to furnish the village with mutton weekly again this summer
that I have consented to do it, though it is quite an undertaking to
have it brought up the twelve miles regularly and early enough in the
morning. Marcus met me with a very solemn face, and when I said in my
cheeriest voice, "How is everything, Marcus?" he took off his hat, made
a low bow, and said:— "Miss, I have very bad news to-day."
"Oh, Marcus, what has happened? Is Rubin dead?" Rubin is a very
beautiful bull, the pride of the place. Very slowly and with great
dramatic effect Marcus answered: "No, ma'am, but the crop is ruin', all
the rice is gone!" "Impossible," I cried, "it was so fine the last time
I was here." "Yes, ma'am, but Sunday dey come a sea tide, what just
sweep over the bank an' 'e bin on de rice till now; de watah bin a foot
deep on all de rice, an' salt, ma'am, salt like 'e'll do for cook with,
en to-day fu' de first 'e begin for drop, en I giv' yu' my word, ma'am,
in my fiel' de rice yu' kin see on de hill is red, same as red flannel!
You kin come en see fu yuself, ma'am, down as far as de bridge, for you
kyant walk on de bank, 'e too wet."
I went and saw that the entire place was flooded and that the hills as
they peeped out, here and there, had a reddish hue, instead of the vivid
green of healthy rice.
What a disaster! A bolt out of a clear sky. If Marcus is right, it means
ruin, and up to this time the rice was splendid. Of course, if salt
water has covered the rice since Sunday there can be no hope except
for the June rice, 60 acres, which was still under the sprout water,
which the sea tide only diluted, and so it may escape. Marcus was so
thoroughly cast down that I had to cheer him, and searched my brain
for grains of comfort for him, until by dint of effort I became quite
cheerful myself, in spite of the very black outlook. I made him taste
the river water and he reported it still salt.
I stopped at Cherokee on the way home and saw the corn and cotton,
and they are beautiful and do Jim great credit, for it is only by the
constant stirring of the land with plough and cultivator that the crop
has not suffered from the six-weeks drought. The oats are being cut,
much injured by the drought, having made no growth and the grain not
having filled out.
Tuesday, June 21.
Gave orders yesterday for the threshing of the oats to-day. The engineer
fired up at daylight and had a fine head of steam on when the hands
assembled, but Bonaparte looked at the sky and said he thought the day
was too "treatish to trash" and sent the hands away, at least a quarter
cord of light wood having been wasted, besides the engineer's time and
the waste of the hands' time, and, worst of all, the losing of the day
when there is so much work needed. It did not rain at all, and even if
it had rained there would have been no harm done, for I had purposely
had the oats hauled into the mill the day before, so that in case of
rain they could still thresh. When I drove down, expecting to find
things in full blast, I was very much provoked. I just had to leave,
for there is no use to give vent to one's wrath. I told them to thresh
to-morrow without regarding the weather.
June 22.
Went in to find threshing successfully accomplished; they got through
quite early, so I determined to let them finish out their day by moving
the piano. The oats made twenty bushels to the acre, which is more than
I thought possible. No one in a city has any idea what the moving of a
piano is. I always feel as though I were personally lifting and handling
it, so entirely is the responsibility on my shoulders. My upright piano
is my most cherished possession, companion, and friend, and I am always
nervous over the perils of its four-mile drive from plantation to summer
house.
[Illustration: The back steps to the pineland house.]
A small mattress is put in the plantation wagon—I have no spring
wagon—and on that the piano is put and steadied by two men while it is
slowly driven out. It always takes eight men, as they are not accustomed
to lifting, and they make a great ado over it. Just as the piano was
lifted out of the wagon up the rather high steps on to the piazza at
the pineland, they set it down at the head of the steps, and gave it
a great push to roll it toward the sitting room door, there came a
tremendous crash. The piazza had fallen in on the side toward the house.
Fortunately there were no men in front of the piano; they were all
behind. I was standing very near and called to them to hold on to it
a moment. I had two heavy planks brought and put as a bridge from the
place where the piano rested into the door, and as soon as they got the
front rollers on the plank all danger was over, but for a time it looked
as if there must be a terrible smashup. I sent one of the men under the
house to see what had caused the crash. He reported it was the giving
way of one of the blocks, which was so rotten it had crumbled away.
"Why, Bonaparte, I sent you to examine the foundation of this house
and see if any repairs were needed, and you said it was all in order."
Bonaparte only murmured apologetically that he was too busy to see about
such small matters.
I am very thankful no one was hurt, and the dear piano is safely
installed. It is a small Steinway upright and is very nearly human in
its companionship. This is the sixth Steinway I have had, I believe,
having never owned any other. I watch its health with desperate anxiety,
for it will have to last me to the end, unless something wonderful
happens to revive rice. I have been at the piano all evening and it is
now 1 o'clock and I am too much excited to go to bed, and that is why
I am writing.
An unknown friend sent me two years ago two volumes of Russian music
that I find fascinating. A cradle song by Karganoff and a prelude by
Rachmaninoff especially possess me. When I play that Berceuse I feel
myself the Russian peasant clasping her child, with intense strained
nerves, always alert, in spite of the soothing, delicious melody she
sings and the reassuring loving reiterations of promised safety. The
prelude is tremendous, foreshadowing awful depths of pain, endless
struggle through distress and discord, up, up, creeping to a final chord
of perfect harmony, but a minor chord. If I were asked for what I was
most thankful in my possessions I should say my power of enjoyment. Here
entirely alone, with never any audience—and in some measure because of
that—these things can fill me with such intense pleasure that it is like
being on a mountain top with the heavens opening in a glorious sunset,
revealing to the panting soul the inner Court of the Beyond.
I remember when taking a singing lesson as a girl being so overcome by
my inability to express what the music said to me that I broke down and
was reduced to tears and said: "Oh, Mr. Toiriani, there is no use for
me to go on: I have no voice and it is useless." He turned fiercely
upon me and said: "Voice—what does that matter? You must go on. Vous
avez le feu sacré." As I used my handkerchief violently in my effort to
suppress the sobs that would come, it seemed to me a poor consolation,
for if the said fire found no outlet it must consume and not illuminate;
but I dared not answer, only struggled for composure to go on with
"Buona notte, buon dormir" in a feeble, quavering, high soprano. But I
often think now I understand more what he meant. One is independent of
outside things; there is a warmth and a glow and a depth that fills and
satisfies, irrespective of results and externals.
July 3.
I paid off this afternoon, as the Fourth of July is the day of all days
the negroes celebrate. It was always so before the war. Every creature
has to be finely dressed.
Chloe came in yesterday in great excitement to say Miss Penelope had
opened a big box of the most beautiful hats and she wanted the money
to buy one, "Quarter of a dollar and 10 cents." I exclaimed at the
cheapness, but when she returned and showed me a very large, black
straw trimmed with a wealth of black and white veiling and a huge purple
orchid on top I was still more filled with wonder how it is possible.
Chloe is perfectly happy. The cloud which has hung over her for the last
week is dispelled by the consciousness that she is suitably provided to
celebrate the country's birthday.
July 6.
On Sunday sent word to all the Cherokee hands that I wanted them to hoe
the rice yesterday. Of course no work is ever done on the Fourth. It is
a day of general jubilation among the darkeys—gorgeous costumes, little
tables set about with ice cream, lemonade, cakes; every kind of thing
for sale—watermelon above all. Yesterday morning there were three women
in the field and a boy to hoe the rice. The other hands sent word that
"they couldn't work so soon arter the Fourth."
[Illustration: "A very large black hat."]
I am anxious to get the field hoed out, for besides its being very
grassy, I see by the weather report that the river has risen to 18 feet
at Cheraw and is still rising, and it is most important to get the rice
clean of grass and the water put over it before that freshet water gets
down here. There are 12 tenant houses on the place with 20 grown hands
and about 6 half hands and numbers of children. These people, by their
agreement, are to work for me whenever I call them. When I do not need
them they are at liberty to work wherever they choose, but when I call
them they are bound to come. With this understanding they have their
house free of rent with an acre of rich upland, all the wood they need,
winter and summer; yet it is impossible to get the necessary work done.
One-half of an acre is the task for a whole hand in hoeing rice, and
the eleven-acre field should not take more than two days at the utmost;
but at this rate it will take more than a week, and I am powerless to
command the work. I pay in money always, but they prefer to make excuses
of illness to me, and slip off and work for my neighbor who pays in
cards redeemable only in his store, because it is done on the sly and
in opposition to my authority—in other words, that is freedom.
Who could succeed with such a state of things in any business? I am so
discouraged. I do not see where it is to end. This fertile soil must
just grow up in weeds and go to waste, because, forsooth, life is too
easy here. Why work when one can live without? Why carry out a contract
when one can wriggle out of it as a snake does from the effort to hold
him with a forked stick, and go and bask in the sun and satisfy the
elemental needs as the snake does?
Jim came in to-night, having done a fine day's ploughing, but very
angry because he had spent his midday hours chasing three negro pigs
through the corn-field. He says they are in the field every day doing
great damage, and he cannot find any hole in the fence where they could
get in. My own twenty-five pigs are kept confined in a crawl or pen for
fear of their getting into the corn, and these robber pigs are fattening
on it. I very much fear some one in an unseen moment turns them in the
gate, for they belong to people living on the place.
I am broadcasting peas on the field from which the oats were cut, and
these pigs are eating them before they can be ploughed under. I cannot
bear to order the pigs shot, but suppose I will have to do it. Things
have never been so bad as this before. There is some influence under
the surface of which I know nothing. God only knows how it is to end,
and it is a great comfort to feel that He does know everything and never
fails them that trust Him.
July 16.
Our rector came to us for service to-day, and we had an excellent sermon
from him. To-night all the neighbors assembled at my house, as usual on
Sunday evenings, for sacred music. It always moves me to see the delight
every one takes in this very simple way of passing the evening—men,
women, and children are equally enthusiastic. I tried having the
children in the afternoon, but they did not enjoy it as much, so they
all come at 8 and sing until 10, and then home to their night's rest.
July 17.
I was scarcely able to get back from Cherokee to-day, so exhausted was
I. Ever since I came home I have been rising at 6 and going into the
plantation very early, attending to my work, and getting back to the
pineland between 12 and 1—a rag in every way. I am so much the worse for
wear that I shall have to give up for a while; as most of the important
work is over it will not matter so much. Have had great trouble about
the wood again—but will not go over it.
July 18.
Too unwell to go out, so have spent the day in the hammock, reading with
great delight Mrs. Gillespie's "Book of Remembrance." What a great thing
for a woman like that to leave such a record behind her! How I wish all
the great women who have passed out of our sight and hearing could have
done the same; it would be an inspiration and help to the poor things
growing up, with their confused ideals.
July 19.
As I was still too weak to go out this morning, and the mercury was 94
degrees, I sent Chloe in to the plantation, driven by the Imp. With the
big umbrella over her she was most comfortably arranged, and I told her
not to hurry back, as Gerty could cook what little I needed. For some
reason the trip went against her, and she came back in a very bad frame
of mind. She said some one had jeered her on the road, and said she had
given up the job of cooking to Gerty, and that I must want to kill her
to send her out in such heat.
I really am mystified, for I have gone in every day since June 7, and
many days have been hotter than this. Last summer very often Chloe
walked in to the plantation and saw after things in the garden, and
walked back, in spite of remonstrance on my part. I wish I knew who had
jeered her, but I really cannot bring myself to ask. Better just to let
her alone until she recovers her equanimity, but it is trying when I am
feeling so below par. I certainly shall not send her again.
July 30.
Rose at 6 and went into the plantation soon after 7, and got through my
work very comfortably, though the thermometer was 96 degrees when I got
back.
Am reading Sir Walter Besant's autobiography with interest. While I was
in Washington some one gave me a list of books from the Philadelphia
bookstore, and the reduced prices have made it a blessing. I have been
able to get books otherwise entirely beyond my reach, and it is such a
treat.
I think biography is the most fascinating and satisfying reading. I sent
on $7, and no one could imagine what a number of delightful books came
back. I positively gloat over them. I have not had such riches in years.
We have a very nice little book club in Peaceville, established about
eight years ago by the thoughtful kindness of a friend, who had visited
me several times and became greatly interested in Peaceville and its
"old time" atmosphere. She sent all the novels her family had finished
reading. And her sister-in-law, who lives at the North, but was making
a visit South and was there when the books were packed and sent,
subscribed to McClure's for the Peaceville Book Club, and has kept it
up ever since; also, from time to time, sending a well chosen new book.
It is so very kind.
When the first lot of books arrived I went around, mentioning that this
donation had been made. I said I hoped every one in the village would
join, and that the membership would be 10 cents. Every one was roused
and delighted, and there was much discussion as to where the books
should be kept. Finally the postmistress, who occupied a little cottage
where the whole village assembled to chat while the mail was being
divided, consented to keep the books. This was an ideal arrangement, and
I had a large bookcase, simply made, with lock and key, and the books
were installed.
After a short time two of my dear friends, whom I had thought of as
especially likely to enjoy the books, came to me and said they would
not be able to join the book club. I wondered, and urged them to join,
when the mother said: "We had intended to join, for we thought the fee
was 10 cents a year; but since hearing it is ten cents a month it will
be impossible for us to indulge ourselves in that pleasure."
"Oh," I said, "it is ten cents a year and not a month. The person who
told you made a mistake—" Then they said, "That is too delightful; for
we felt miserable at having to give it up."
Now the fee had been merely in order to give some little control over
the books, and I had thought if it was a monthly fee we should be able
to get some books every year with the fees; but as it was established
just for these very cases, I suddenly changed the plan, and 10 cents
a year it has remained ever since. The kind friends have continued to
send the novels they have read, and some of their friends in New York
have sent boxes of magazines, so that the little club now has about
four hundred volumes. Our dearly beloved postmistress has gone to join
the majority, and the little cottage is closed, and the books have
been removed to a shed room in my house, but there is no estimating the
pleasure they have given, and still give, and the weary hours they have
relieved.
Every year I get one new book with the fees, and this year, thanks
to the wonderful Philadelphia bookstore, I got three, for novels are
preferred at the Book Club.
When people work hard and have little pleasure they need relaxation,
which means "Mrs. Wiggs" and "Lovey Mary" and tales of chivalry and
wonder and social joys, and all the things which every one longs to have
for themselves and their children. The writer who can blot out all the
sordid present and raise one into a different atmosphere and keep one
there for two hours is a mighty benefactor.
August 6.
I have suffered so from heat that I felt distracted. Went to the
plantation most reluctantly, but it was a relief, for it felt cooler
driving, but poor Ruth suffered greatly. I am ashamed to be so knocked
down by the heat; my mind seems addled.
Bonaparte's daughter-in-law, Kiz, is very ill with typhoid fever. Her
husband brought her to the doctor to-day in an ox cart. The doctor
was very angry, saying she was quite too ill and that he must take her
quickly home.
I had made some jelly for her and sent Patty running after the ox cart
with it. She said Kizzie was very grateful and took it all, saying
it was the nicest thing she had ever tasted. Poor, poor soul; in this
heat—no ice, no anything that she should have! I who am quite well miss
ice terribly, and think of her with that fever!
[Illustration: Her husband brought her in an ox cart.]
I sent some jelly to old Amy, too. I do not think she can recover. She
is Patty's grandmother. MacDuff feels the heat greatly. The mercury has
been over 90 for several days. The colts both have distemper and cannot
be driven for a long time.