September 3.
It is time for my harvest to begin, but for some reason the rice is
ripening very slowly, and I fear the first field at Casa Bianca will
not be ready to cut before the 14th of this month. It has never quite
recovered from the salt water and is not as fine as last year. At
Cherokee one field of rice is very fine, the other not very good; but
the corn is of the best, and so are the peas. A splendid crop. In July
I took up thirty acres of very well-drained land, enclosed it with an
American wire fence, and planted some of it in cow-peas preparatory to
planting alfalfa this autumn. The peas are most luxuriant, a solid mass
of green about two feet high. They show the benefit of the subsoiling I
had done, for I used no fertilizer of any kind on the land. I have gone
to great expense to put this land in good condition, for I have great
hope of making alfalfa our money crop in the future—poor, dear rice
seems to have resigned that position.
September 13.
Mr. and Mrs. S. from Indiana are staying with Mr. L. They came to look
into the possibilities of this country for cattle raising, Mr. S. being
one of the most successful and best-known breeders of Hereford cattle.
He wishes to see as much of the plantations as he can, so I invited
them to spend the day with me at Casa Bianca, as it is a good natural
pasture. I took down everything with me for a nice luncheon, and they
seemed to enjoy the day. Mr. S. said my cattle were in fine condition,
and that the grass was very good.
While they amused themselves wandering about the grounds and over the
rambling old house I went to see Marcus. He told me he had all the
hands he could get minding birds and picking grass out of River Wragg
and that he had taken the water off to-day as he hoped to cut it day
after to-morrow. After lunch when we went out the look of everything had
changed—it had been a perfect morning, with little white clouds flitting
about, just making you wonder at the blue of the sky in contrast to
their airy whiteness, but now they had heavy dark edges and they rushed
heavily and wildly about, and there was something in the air that made
one sniff a coming storm. Mr. L., who knew the signs well, asked me to
have his carriage got, and left at once, advising me to do the same;
but I had some things to attend to before leaving, and so was nearly an
hour late. I told Marcus to put the water back on the rice or it would
be whipped to pieces by the wind, which was now tremendous.
My twelve-mile drive home in an open wagon was a race with the storm,
wildly exciting and exhilarating, in spite of the danger from falling
limbs and flying branches. All along the way the cattle were gathered
in the middle of the road, and my companion said she had always heard
that was a sure sign of an approaching storm; ordinarily they are in
the woods and I was greatly surprised at the number. I knew the negroes
owned a good deal of cattle, but did not know there were such herds.
The horses were greatly excited and it did not take us long to reach
home. Though it had rained all the way it did not pour, and the wind
being so high seemed to blow the rain away, and we were very little wet.
The wind increased in violence every hour, and now at 10 o'clock it is
a terrific gale. I have been all over the house examining windows and
doors to see that the fastenings are secure, and am going to bed, for
I am very tired.
September 14.
The storm raged terribly all night; sleep was impossible. The rafters
creaked and groaned, the windows rattled, the house shook, the wind
roared through the pine trees, while the cracking of limbs sounded like
musketry and now and then the loud thud of a falling tree like cannon.
These sounds kept the ear and mind on a prolonged strain. In the dawn
of the morning I looked out—a gloomy, dark sky, trees down in every
direction, not a fence in sight; but no houses down.
Later in the day I went forth to find out how my neighbors had fared,
and found every one so thankful to find themselves and their families
alive and unhurt that every one was cheerful and bright. Most people
sat up all night and all seemed to have had me much on their minds.
"Such a terrible night for you to be alone in the house; we thought of
you constantly." I had been thinking with such anxiety about people on
the islands and at sea that I did not feel frightened for myself; but I
found the servants had been very anxious about me, and Jim had walked
round the house several times, but finding all still and no light had
gone back to the servants' hall. I hear of many marvellous escapes,
houses falling and pinning people down, without a single death and with
little injury.
All the planters went out very early to the plantations, carrying axes
to cut their way along.
September 15.
I rode to the plantation to-day, as the road is impassable for a vehicle
from the village to Cherokee. There the storm played havoc; the immense
oak trees are down in every direction; some uprooted, some split into
several sections. Just back of the dwelling-house there was a large oak
heavily draped with ivy that had been snapped off in falling, narrowly
escaping the house. Two other very large oaks to the northeast of the
house are down; they evidently broke the force of the wind on the house,
which is not injured at all. The earth is strewn with gray moss and
small green twigs and leaves, so that it looks like a huge gray and
green carpet.
A two-story barn is down at the barn-yard, also another building, and
the screw is badly twisted and in a falling condition. The corn, which
was so fine, has been torn and tangled, and a great deal is lying on
the ground partially buried in the mud, the heavy beating rain having
left the fields almost boggy. I sent all hands to gather up the fallen
ears; in the barn I had them shucked and spread over the floor to dry.
At the point of nearly every ear the corn is sprouting. Of the cow-peas
about ten acres are ruined; they were loaded with pods almost ready to
pick, and they have been stripped of leaves and fruit and are only bare
stems. I have never seen a storm so thorough in its work and so minute
in its attention to detail.
I always try to see the grain of comfort in every misfortune, and find
it now in the thought of the profit to the land in that heavy mulch of
pea-vine leaves and pods; meantime I will not make seed. Fortunately
my alfalfa peas were younger and in a sheltered situation, and have not
been at all hurt. I had not heard from Casa Bianca until to-night, and
the same tale of destruction and desolation comes from there, but there
has been no loss of life. I was so afraid some of the negro houses might
have fallen and hurt some one, for they are very old. There is not a
fence standing, and the demand for nails is great.
September 17.
This morning old Maum Mary came to bring me a present of sweet potatoes,
indicating that she was in great need of nails; so I made her a present
of some nails and also a piece of money. She and old Tom live on a
little farm of their own, where they plant a field of corn, a patch of
rice, a patch of cotton, and one of tobacco. They raise three or four
hogs every year and have a cow. In addition to these they have a most
prolific pear tree and a very large scuppernong grape-vine, and the sale
of their fruit brings them in a nice little income.
[Illustration: "Old Maum Mary came to bring me a present of sweet
potatoes."]
After the interchange of presents had been made and she had eaten the
plate of meat and bread and drained the cup of coffee which I brought
her, her tongue was loosed, and she said:—
"Yes, my missus, I neber see sech a judgment on de tree! De big pine
'ood is lebel down, en I had to climb for get yuh, but I ain't hab a
nail, en de fench bin down, en me tetta, en me little crap o' corn bin
dey open, en ef de Lawd didn't bin dat mussiful dat night en confuse
de critter mind, all 'ood a gone. Yes, my missus, eberybody fench bin
down, but not a cow nor a hog ain't eat nothing. Ain't yer see? De Lawd
confuse dem mind to dat; Him is mussiful fer true. Dat night, my missus,
de house shake en rock so, tell me en Tom git up en set down by de fiah,
en we pray, en we pray, but de fiah cu'dn't burn, kase de rain po' down
de chimbly. We de pray, en de house de rock en de shingle de fly, bam
dis way, en bam dat way, en Tom cry out en 'e say, 'Yes, my Lawd, we is
sinna fo' tru, but spare we dis time,' en den I teck up de disco'se en I
say, 'Lawd, I know I is wicked, but gi' me anoder chanst.' En de wahter
gone through de house, en de shed blow off, en de wedder-boa'd blow off,
en de tree all round de crack en de fall, en, my missus, w'en de mawning
come I was susprise w'en I see Tom de day, en me de day, en de house de
day, en I hol' up my han' en I cry, 'My Lawd, yer is too mussiful, yo'
jes' trow down de boa'd en de shingle, now ef dat bin a man, strong like
a you, him 'ood a throw down de hol' house.' Yes, ma'am, I'se tankful
to de Lawd," and with a deep courtesy she went to mend her fence.
September 20.
Harvest is going on at Casa Bianca—the much-tried River Wragg field
is being loaded into the flats, in spite of its being soaked in salt
water in July and swept by the gale last Tuesday. I cannot help hoping
it may make something, it looks so pretty and golden as it is being
"toted" into the flat. The night of the gale I thought it would be
completely destroyed, because it was dry, but a tremendous tide rushed
over the banks and topped the rice, thereby saving it from complete
destruction. The June rice, however, fifty acres of which was very fine,
has been greatly injured by the topping tide, for it seems the water
was brackish, and the rice was just in milk. Marcus was bragging about
this rice, and my hopes were high, but now he shakes his head and looks
solemn.
Some years ago a lady in Saratoga said to me: "The Lord does not seem
to have much respect for you rice planters." I answered: "I think Job's
friends and acquaintances said the same thing to him."
Certainly it behooves us to imitate that worthy's patient endurance
of the calamities which fell so thick upon him for years, and his firm
faith in his Maker.
In the Old Testament the promise of worldly prosperity as a reward of
obedience to God's law was very distinct, but in the New Testament it is
different—sorrow, adversity, tribulation, are mentioned, and the promise
is of peace within, of power to be undismayed by seeming disaster,
strong in the faith that He doeth all things well.
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,
He plants his footsteps on the sea
And rides upon the storm.
* * * * *
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
Several of my friends in the village are ill, and fresh milk is much
needed; so I waited till after sunset, when Gibbie had finished milking,
to take the fresh milk with me. It was so little that after sending out
three little pitchers there was none left for myself. Gibbie is doing
his best to dry up the cows; this was the last trial.
In the morning I found Eva had not come out to do the work I had pointed
out to her, and I went out to the street, meaning to go to her house
and see what was the matter. I found no gate to her large enclosure and
could not get in, so went to Gibbie's house to ask the way. It was about
11 o'clock and Gibbie was supposed to be at work. Saw the children and
asked for their mother, but they did not seem to understand, but when
I repeated my question the little one answered:—
"Pa dey een 'e baid."
I looked through the door and there was Gibbie fast asleep across the
bed. I went in and poked him with my parasol, but he did not wake, so
I left the house feeling hopeless—how can any work be done with this
going on!
As I went through his yard I met his wife carrying a burning coal
between two sticks. She had been over to a neighbor's, as she said,
"to ketch fiah fo' cook Gibbie bittle." She directed me to her
mother-in-law's house through a labyrinth of fences and gates.
I was much interested, for it is just what Stanley describes in "Darkest
Africa," a system of passages of stockades, making hasty entrance
impossible and so guarding against surprise; any one finding his way
through must be seen by the inmates before reaching the innermost
barrier. I wound my way through a field of splendid potatoes, then
through one of peas, then into a field of splendid corn with peas
running to the top of the stalks loaded with pods seven and eight inches
long.
[Illustration: "Pa dey een 'e baid."]
I went into the house, where Nobby, Eva's youngest son, a youth of 18,
was sitting contemplating a big sheet packed with peas which lay on the
floor. I asked where his mother was. He said in the field behind the
house. He remained sitting while I went round the house, where grew
luxuriant tomato plants loaded with fruit and very tall okra, and on
to another fine potato patch, where there were also peas, which Eva was
picking.
She was much startled at seeing me. When I asked her why she had not
come to work as she promised she hesitated and stammered, then said that
the cow broke her fence and she had to stay home to mend it.
"Surely that big idle boy Nobby could mend the fence," I said.
The fence showed no sign of damage, and I knew she had just preferred to
stay at home. I spoke severely and told her to come to-morrow and do the
work. She has in all about ten acres with her house, and her agreement
is to give me one day's work every week as rent, and she cannot make up
her mind to do that if she can possibly escape it.
My only consolation was the extreme abundance and comfort of everything
and the cleanliness of the houses and the children, but that is a great
comfort to me.
I have made myself a beautiful big blue denim apron turned up about
twenty inches, so that when I go in the field to get rid of the
cockspurs and see the work I need not be idle.
My field of pea-vine hay is beautiful, but it was so badly ploughed that
here and there cockspurs were not turned under and they would ruin the
whole field. I have paid a woman twice to go through the field and pull
out the plants before the fatal little burr was hard. I went through it
myself some time ago and found that she had only broken off the heads
and left the roots, all there to spring again.
I pulled out quite a number, and to-day called Dab to go into the field
with me to pull them. If only I had told him to bring a hoe the day
would have been saved. In order to get to the field by the shortest way
I had to pass through a low spot in the corn-field which was grown up
with weeds dense and as tall as my head. The ox cart had made a track in
the midst, where its wheels had mashed the weeds, from the barn-yard. I
was about fifty feet in front of Dab, lifting my foot very high at each
step and going very slowly, with eyes everywhere, when six feet in front
of me I saw a heart curdling sight—a moccasin so enormous that I could
not believe my eyes.
He lay with his tail a foot beyond the wheel tracks on one side and his
awful head a foot beyond on the other! I called as softly as I could
to Dab, who was just opening the gate, "Bring a strong stick quickly to
kill this snake!"
Dab called aloud in his most educated tone, which he very seldom uses,
"A snake, eh? What kind of a snake? A big snake, eh?"
"Come at once, Dab, with a strong stick!" I said in anything but a
conversational tone, but Dab continued to discourse and ejaculate, and
before I could get him to take a lath from an old gate near which he
stood the monster, who had listened to everything, slowly moved into
the thick bushes and was gone.
There I stood, afraid to move one way or the other. I do not remember
ever to have been so thoroughly demoralized since I was a child. When
Dab came up even the tail was out of sight. I hate to think it, but it
almost seemed as if Dab had dallied and waited until he was sure it had
gone, for I kept crying, "Come quickly, it is beginning to move! Oh,
Dab, come on, it will get away! It is going!" and not until I cried in
despair, "Now it is gone!" did he come forward with great boldness, a
splendid lightwood stake in his hand with which the snake could easily
have been killed while it was in sight. I would not let him pursue it
into the high growth.
I sent him back to the house for a hoe, and while he was gone I stood
there battling with myself. I could not bear to go on through that tall,
dense growth of grass and weeds with this terrible thing somewhere,
but I said to myself: "You have never let fear turn you back from an
undertaking in your latter life; are you going to turn craven now? If
you do you will be miserable; your life is beset by many dangers; once
let fear get the upper hand and your composure and peace of mind are
gone."
So I argued and reasoned and fought with myself, and by the time Dab
came, it was easy to go on. I took the hoe from him and cleaned a space
of weeds in the direction the snake had taken, and when I had showed
him that I was not afraid to do it and how I wished it done he took
the hoe and very gingerly chopped down the growth toward the vegetable
garden, for I feared very much that the monster should establish itself
in there. I kept behind him, encouraging him on, when he gave a shriek
and cried:—
"Der de snake now." No educated tone now. He cried aloud "de snake, de
sing."
I tried my best to see the snake, but could not. He is a little taller
than I am and could see over the bushes.
"You must kill it, Dab!" I said. "If you do not it may bite you some day
when you go to pick tomatoes. If you see it there is no danger; you can
chop its head off with that hoe."
With much urging Dab lifted the hoe and struck once, twice, thrice and
then called out, "I got'm; 'e daid!"
"Bring it out! Don't leave it in the weeds!" I said.
Dab lifted his hoe tremulously, and there was a small ribbon snake, a
foot long and one inch round!
I could not help a burst of merriment over it—and that restored our
nerves. Dab continued to declare that the snake had sung, and since,
I have felt I was very stupid not to know that the little snake's
cry, if snakes ever do cry, was one of terror, and that it was due to
the big snake being near, and that if I had only known it was not the
monster Dab saw, and if I had not let him waste time on the little
snake we might have caught up with the big fellow, who will now remain
a permanent terror.
I am going to turn the horses in that field and the cows, and it will be
a miracle if none of them meets him, and then my beautiful red setter
will always be in danger. However, there was nothing to be done and I
went on through the grass to the hay-field, walking very warily ahead
with the hoe lifted, while Dab followed in my wake.
We picked nearly a barrelful of cockspur roots from the field. I have
had an empty barrel put there to receive them. The peas are bearing well
and the grass is very high, and it will make splendid hay, but I will
not mow it until I feel sure there is not a single cockspur left.
They are fatal to horses. So strong are their little barbed points that
if swallowed they pierce the intestines and kill the animal. There is
only one way in which they can be got rid of, and that is by my all-day
presence in the field, so for a week I expect to give myself up to it
entirely—huge straw hat, blue denim apron, and buckskin gauntlets.
September 21.
This morning I went early to Cherokee and drove through the "street"
to get some hands to break in two acres of corn which, being very near
the road and convenient to passersby, had better be in the barn. At
the well I found a picturesque group of gossiping matrons. After the
usual civilities, I told my errand. "Becka, I want you," I said to
one, a splendid figure, who stood balancing on her head a large tub of
water. She answered: "Miss, I berry sorry; I kyant possible cum, I got
de feber right now," and she walked off at a swinging gait. I turned to
an equally fine specimen of health and strength and said, "Agnes, you
will come?" "Miss, I too sorry, but mi baby got de feber;" the said baby
looked as bright and hearty as the mother. All through the street it
was the same thing. One elderly woman, quite as a favor, went home and
locked her door and came. I had brought my house servants to help and
found one or two hands in the barn-yard; but it took much longer than
it should have done.
[Illustration: One or two hands in the barn-yard.]
This corn had been stolen in a very clever way. About a month ago I went
through the field to mark what I wished kept for seed from the stalks
that had more than one fine ear. I found that about every eighth stalk
had two ears and some few had three ears; to-day, when gathered, not a
single stalk had more than one ear. In spite of this and the damage from
the storm, these two acres made seventy-two bushels of shelled corn,
which is a comfort.
On the way down I stopped at the post-office. While I waited for my
stamps a negro drove up and took from his buggy two large sacks stuffed
full of something; each sack held two bushels. To my amazement, when he
proceeded to empty the contents on the ground, I found they were rice
birds! I tried at once to buy a dozen, but he said they were already
sold, and began to count them out to another negro. He had got to 150
dozen when I left and had not got through with one sack. He said he got
35 cents a dozen for them. I have only had rice birds twice this season;
yet the fields are swarming with them.
The work of repairing the screw which carries the rice from threshing
mill to shipping barn is nearly finished. It has been very expensive,
and my crop this year does not warrant the expense. Yet it was dangerous
to leave it hanging as it was, and so I was forced either to pull it
down, which would have been an expense, or repair it, and I chose the
latter course.
PEACEVILLE, September 23.
Went to Casa Bianca to-day, but did not see Nat, though he always
assures me that he never leaves the place for an hour. In spite of the
rough preparation of the ground the peas I had him plant are splendid.
I went down especially to see the spot I have enclosed in wire,
intending to try celery on it. I gave Nat very special directions about
preparing the land, but thought it best to see how he would succeed
before risking any money in plants. I told him to plough it once north
and south very deep—I was willing for him to do only half an acre a day
so as to be sure of its being well done—then to harrow it thoroughly
and after that to plough it east and west, then to harrow it every day
for a week. These seemed to me clear and sensible directions, and I gave
him as long as he needed to do the work, not hurrying him.
When I saw the result to-day I was uncertain whether to laugh or to cry;
fortunately mirth won the day. I was wearing heavy boots and yet it was
difficult walking, so uphill and downdale was it. I am truly thankful I
did not go to the expense of buying the plants until I saw the condition
of the land. It would be hopeless to expect anything like celery to grow
and thrive in such a rough bed; it could never be a success.
[Illustration: A corner of Casa Bianca.]
It is a great disappointment. Nat is in some ways so faithful and
intelligent that I thought I could make him understand how I wanted the
soil. He is a fine rice-field hand. He rented ten acres and always made
good crops. This is only one acre of very rich black land with a western
slope to a little branch; it has been pastured for years.
In the happy days when I lived at Casa Bianca (about a hundred years
ago) it was the vegetable garden, and in it we always grew delicious
celery; but then the gardener was an expert, one of the wonderful
products of the past, Paul Wynns by name. I should like to tell his
story some day. Thanks to his fidelity, cleverness, and diligence the
family silver was all saved in the very teeth of the all-absorbing
Sherman.
It was some years after the war, and he was very old when he looked
after our garden, having a boy under him to do the work. He was a
Methodist preacher of some distinction and had great power with his
own people, which was very fortunate, for in a time of upset and
intoxication, when the poor darkeys were rudderless and one heard the
boast often, "De bottom rail dey on top now," Paul's good sense and good
heart—I may say his wisdom—were a great blessing, and he left his mark
behind him. In the time before 1860 he was in charge of everything in
this household, a most accomplished house servant.
My predecessor at Casa Bianca was a woman of immense ability and
cleverness. She spent much time abroad and was a great friend of the
Grand Duke of Weimar, who on one occasion about 1862 said he had always
desired an African in his suite. Mrs. P. said at once:—
"I will send you one as a present."
The Grand Duke demurred, but on her return home, though the war
was raging, she fulfilled her promise. She asked Paul if he would
like his son Tom to be the lad chosen to go, that he would have the
best education and live in the midst of luxury. Paul, after mature
deliberation, accepted the honor for his son and in spite of war and
turmoil Tom was sent.
The Grand Duke was delighted with him and treated him with the greatest
favor. He married the daughter of an "honorable Councillor" and
lived happy ever afterward. He lost his life in his efforts to render
help when a fire broke out in the palace, dying from the effects of
overexertion. His monthly letters were the delight of his father. Since
Paul's death I have heard nothing of the family.
When I got back to Cherokee at 4 o'clock I found a funeral going on.
David's eldest son was buried. I am so sorry; he was always a good boy
and had learned the trade of carpenter and was doing good work. It is
hard on his parents.
Elihu's little boy was also buried to-day. I am distressed for poor
Elihu. He has lost his wife and three little boys since he left
Cherokee. If I only had an empty house in repair I would insist on his
coming back. They say it was his poor wife who persuaded him to accept
the offer of my neighbor.
As I drove home to-day Ruth shied violently and, looking down, I saw
a terrible looking black man in the broiling sun in the ditch asleep
or ill, I couldn't tell which, but Dab stuttered out: "Drunk, ma'am;
nothing but dat." I drove on a little way and then said:—
"Dab, that poor creature will die in that burning sun. Take my umbrella
and go back and set it up over him. Don't speak to him, just put the
umbrella so as to keep the sun off."
So Dab flew off, but Ruth would not wait, and I had to drive on. I met a
nice looking black woman whose parents had belonged to us, and I said:—
"Chaney, I sent my umbrella to put over a man in the ditch there; do
fix it right when you pass."
She dropped a deep curtsy and said: "Dat is my husband Jupiter, Miss
Patience, en' he's drunk all de time, en' I t'ank yo' kindly for puttin'
de hambrellar ober him. Miss Patience, he ain't gi'e me so much as a
apurn fo' five years, but he is my lawful married husband an' I bleeged
to ten' 'um."
September 29.
Vareen harvest begun, a perfect day, the sun in great glory, with little
white clouds flitting hither and thither, doing continual homage to
him, and making the sky a thing of beauty. I did not go down to the
plantation early, but followed my plan of getting there just in time to
turn back the hands who are leaving the field with too little done. Yet
they got ahead of me, for they had all left the field and gone home at
11:30 o'clock, having only cut four acres in a field of eleven acres.
Of course it was vain to attempt to get them back. I met faithful old
Ancrum, whom I had put in charge, and he told me that they had all
cut what was counted a task in slavery times, and left the field by 11
o'clock. I was greatly tried, because the risk of leaving the rice in
the field all day Sunday is too great, and I wanted to get it into the
barn-yard Saturday evening. I explained this to the old man and told
him we would have to get a big day's work done to-morrow, as so little
had been done to-day, or it would leave a very heavy day's work for
Saturday, which they all dislike very much. My father always allowed
a very light task for Saturday and required that washing, scouring,
raking the yards and burning trash should be done in each household as
a preparation for Sunday, when everything should be tidy and clean.
They keep up the practice very generally now, and it is rare to find
on the "street" a house where active preparations are not being made on
Saturday evening, and I encourage it in every way in my power.
[Illustration: "Chaney."]
The new beater for the threshing mill engine has arrived and is being
put up. Last year I lost my engineer, he having been absorbed by a
neighboring mill-owner, and I felt much at a loss, but I turned at once
to an old "befo' de wah" darkey, who had learned his trade under my
father. Every one said old Tinny could not possibly run the mill: he
was too old and stupid; but I sent for him and he came promptly, and
when I asked if he could run the engine and thresh the crop for me he
answered, with great spirit, "Suttinly I kin," as though I had insulted
him by the question. He has showed himself a competent engineer, careful
and vigilant, though he looks as if he had not intelligence or capacity
enough to kindle the fire. His first action was to tell me, after
examining the machinery, that I must get a new beater, as he did not
consider the one in use safe. When I demurred he said, "Miss, lemme mek
you sensible. I kin patch um up en run de ingin ef yo' kyan't possible
buy a new one; but it's a resk, en my ole marsta 'ood neber expose none
o him peeple to run a ingin wid sech a beater, yo' onderstan', ma'am?"
I needed nothing more than that, and wrote at once to beg Capt. L. to
come and examine it and, if necessary, to order a new one for me. He
took a long time to come, being a very busy man, but when he did come he
said Tinny was quite right and a new one was necessary, and now Tinny is
engaged in putting in the new beater. It seems almost a miracle to me
that he should be able to do it; but it just shows what it is to have
been thoroughly trained to a thing in youth. This pygmy of 75, who has
not looked at an engine for thirty years, and has just lived under his
own vine and fig tree and worked his own little farm, the moment he is
called upon, is perfectly at home in the engine room and really more
competent than the very intelligent, smart young man I had before, who
reads, writes, and speaks correctly and has learned his trade since the
war.
In the same way old Ancrum, who is 80 years of age, is the one man I can
get to do a really pretty piece of ditching. Auerbach says, "By work
we learn fidelity," and I believe the immense number of infidelities,
financial, moral, and spiritual, which flood the country come in great
measure from the sentiment against labor which has crept over the land
with the rise of wealth. There is a sentimentality which is opposed to
work and laments over the necessity for it, whereas the man or woman who
has never really worked is to be pitied, and will never reach the point
of excellence and development that could have been attained, had he or
she learned to put out the whole strength, either of mind or body, on
something.
September 30.
I got down to the plantation in time to turn back some of the young men
who had left the field and were on their way to "the street," having
cut a half acre but not tied up the rice they cut yesterday. A few
laughing words as to the contrast between their strong looks and feeble
deeds made them turn back, and fearing to lose sight of them I offered
to take them back to the field in my boat. If I had been in the field
all morning I could not have kept them, they would have slipped away
from me just as they had done from the foreman; but arriving fresh and
cheerful on the scene I can force them back by my will. I got into the
field just as they had all finished cutting and were about to leave, and
as each one turned to leave, I said: "Now tie up what you cut yesterday
and tote it to the flat." It was just touch and go as to whether they
would flatly refuse or obey. For one moment they stood wavering; then I
said, "Don't delay now, for it is better to have the extra work to-day
than on Saturday." That settled it and they flew, and now, at 2 o'clock,
the whole of yesterday's cutting is in the flat and every one is gay
and happy.
Agnes has just passed me going home. As she was getting into her boat
I said, "Finished already? I know you are glad I made you do it." She
showed every one of her perfect teeth and said, "Miss, I too tenk yo'
for mek me do um; to-morrer I kin finish by 10 o'clock." I brought a
basket of beautiful Keiffer pears with me and distribute them from time
to time, and they are much enjoyed. This country is the home of the
pear; both the Keiffer and Le Conte grow and bear luxuriantly, and the
pears reach immense size.
I feel so happy at the success of the day's work that I am going to eat
my frugal meal, with its accompaniment of artesian water, with great
enjoyment. No one who has not spent days out of doors, with all the
pretty sights and sounds which nature so lavishly provides, can know the
exhilaration I feel. After trying everything for lunch I have settled
on a closely covered dish of rice, which is most satisfying and is very
little trouble to eat. If only the field did not smell so terribly! My
good Chloe has put up a large supply of rice and broiled ham to-day, so
I am able, after I finish, to offer a part to any one who looks dejected
or tired. "Would you like some of my dinner, Ancrum? Well, bring your
bucket cover." They all carry their "bittle," as they call their lunch,
in bright looking tin cans with close fitting covers which make nice
plates.
When the rice was all nicely stowed in the flat I got into my boat and
came home.
October 1.
A sparkling welcome to October—a perfect day with mercury only 65. I
am sitting on Vareen bank watching the "toting"—such active, wonderful
figures, I wish I had my kodak. The distance across the field is
considerable and to see little Stella, just her feet to her knees
visible, so huge is the bundle of rice on her head, coming across the
field, stepping over the quarter drains from one boggy spot to another,
is wonderful.
The hands have worked, splendidly to-day and my little refreshments have
been much appreciated. Fortunately it was just high water at 3 o'clock
when the last sheaf was put in the flat and so it could be poled up the
river and put safely under the flat-house. I put Elihu in charge of her
as watchman until Monday. I hope that, as the rice in the flat will make
a comfortable resting-place, he will remain at his post. It was with a
light heart I drove back to the pineland, for the clouds were darkening
and it was pleasant to know that the rice is under shelter, and the
blessed Day of Rest will be free from anxiety.
October 3.
The first day of threshing is always trying. The feed house is packed up
to the very roof with the rice from P. D. Wragg, and I want to get it
threshed out to allow Vareen to be brought out of the flat and stowed
in the feed room. Of course the belts, etc., all have to be adjusted,
and it took so long to get in good running order that when they got
through threshing the rice in the mill they all declared it was too late
to unload the flat. I insisted, however, on their working until sunset,
as they had spent many hours idle while the bands were being adjusted.
We got nearly all out of the flat, and it will be easy to finish early
in the morning and have the flat empty and ready for Cicero, to whom I
have promised it to-morrow, to load up his rice at Casa Bianca.
I rode down on my wheel this morning, a most inspiriting ride in the
fresh morning air. On my way to the barn-yard I turned aside to see the
field I have recently enclosed, and planted in cow-peas preparatory to
alfalfa. There is a splendid growth of peas in full bearing, the pods
quite green still. It is a beautiful and cheering sight. I opened the
gate and went in, for the finest peas are not visible from the gate.
What was my dismay to find ten fat, sleek oxen standing up to their
bodies in the peas eating rapidly! They all belonged to the negroes on
the place. I never saw a more perfect picture of satisfaction. I walked
round the fence till I found the place where they had literally torn
three panels to pieces—new American fence wire well stretched on fine
cedar posts! I cannot understand it, unless they had help. The top wire
had been broken just between two staples and that gave the slackness
which enabled them to destroy it. I had just to leave them there, for
even if I had not been afraid of them, I could not possibly have driven
them out alone.
I had to go on to the barn-yard and not say a word about it until I
found some one who could be spared from the threshing—there were just
enough hands to run the mill—Jim had gone to Gregory for a load of
boards. After a while, in a pause of the threshing, I took Marion, who
was stowing back straw in the barn, and sent him with my little Imp to
drive the cattle out. I gave him a pencil and piece of paper and told
him to write down the number of cattle and the names of their owners,
saying, "this is a position of trust, Marion." He answered, "Yes,
ma'am," most pleasantly. He came back after a while with the names of
the owners and the number of cattle very neatly written, but there were
eight instead of ten. I asked Imp afterward how many oxen there were and
without hesitation he said, "ten"; so I knew Marion had failed in his
trust. Later I had the fence repaired as best I could and told all the
men they must tie up their cattle for the night. Elihu, who had three
splendid oxen in the field, expressed great regret and said, "I ploughed
de lan' for dem pea, en day is tu fyne fer cattle 'stroy." He promised
faithfully to shut his up.
October 4.
On my way to Cherokee this morning I stopped at the alfalfa field and
there in the midst were fourteen head of cattle; only one man had shut
up his. Elihu's three oxen were there and his cow and two pretty heifers
besides, also a pair belonging to a man who lives on his own farm, two
miles off in the woods, and only works here when it pleases him.
I went on quickly and sent Jim to take Imp and drive them out of the
field and into my yard, where the owners can come and pay for them
before they take them out. I charged 25 cents each for the first
offence, and doubled it for the second. It certainly is a great trial
after the heavy expense of such a fence to have professional fence
breaking oxen tear it to pieces. I thought nothing could hurt it but
tools in human hands.
The fields that have been threshed have turned out pitifully and I am
in despair. I hear on every side that the price is very low. Nearly all
the planters have already announced that they will not plant any rice
next year, which no doubt is wise, but what will become of the country
with no money crops? For the first time I put a mortgage on the place
this year and borrowed $1000. Marshfield at Casa Bianca (25 acres) has
often put that much in the bank and sometimes more; so I felt justified
in doing it, but now—!
I am trying to cut and cure some pea-vine and crab-grass hay, but it is
very uphill work. Every one is so ignorant of hay making and I cannot
tell them with authority because I know nothing myself except what
common-sense dictates. The putting up and starting of the mowing machine
was very difficult, but now it is working fairly well, and the weather
is perfect for the purpose. The stacking I cannot get properly done—they
are accustomed to pile straw in heaps and they will only pile the hay
instead of making a compact stack.
October 11.
Digging potatoes at Cherokee, eight women with hoes; but they make
slow progress. I insisted on having Jim open some with the plough,
but Bonaparte said the plough covered up too many, and as he has been
superintending this work a long time, and has the banking and storing of
the potatoes, I thought it the part of wisdom to let him do it in the
way which he assured me would secure the greatest number of potatoes
for my use.
October 13.
Still digging potatoes, though only one and three-quarter acres were
planted, and they are not turning out as well as usual; they generally
yield over one hundred bushels to the acre. The hay making goes on
pretty well. Jim is getting to run the mower and rake very skilfully,
but the man I have stacking the hay is very obstinate. As long as I
stand and look at him the stack is packed and properly formed, but as
soon as I leave he just tosses the hay lightly on the pole and a rain
would ruin it.
October 23.
The potatoes are all in and the hay nearly so. The other evening I was
superintending the stacking of the hay when five children came to ask
me to let them go in the potato field and "hunt tetta." I let them go,
as I always do, for my heart is tender to children and I like to see
their delight over the potatoes they find. I was so much interested in
getting a perfect stack that I went up the ladder to the top to see
if it was well packed, while the wagon went for another load. It was
so lovely up there that I sat a long time. The sun was nearing the end
of its journey, and the slanting rays glorified the fields with their
borders of bright colored leaves, the ruddy brown of the cypress giving
its rich tone to the landscape. I saw from my vantage point nearly the
whole upland, and in the foreground the children in the potato patch.
They all had hoes and it struck me they were digging very regularly in
rows and not here and there, as they generally do, and I watched them
more closely. In the little time that they had been there the boys had
each about a bushel in their bags, and I realized that the women had
systematically covered up potatoes in the rows as they dug them. I did
not stop the children, but let them go on every afternoon, with the
result that they each got about ten bushels of potatoes. Another year I
will not employ the women on the place to dig them, but will get hands
from outside, for whom the temptation will not be so great to hide the
potatoes for their own children to find. I like the children to glean,
for their parents are so careless and improvident that very few make
a crop of potatoes, though they have every opportunity to do so, and
children always love potatoes; but when it comes to having the best
ones covered up for them I feel it is time to call a halt. One year I
superintended the digging very closely myself, and there was no chance
for covering up. The crop turned out finely and I was pleased, but after
the potatoes were banked in the barn-yard they were stolen, so that I
have since left it entirely to Bonaparte.
[Illustration: Five children asked me to let them "hunt tetta."]
October 31.
The harvest of my twenty-five acre field at Casa Bianca began
to-day—most beautiful weather and the hands worked very well, cutting
down seven and a half acres, so that I hope we will get it all in the
flats by Saturday.
November 1.
Another brilliant day and the hands getting on merrily with the work.
If this were April rice we would tie up to-day what was cut yesterday,
but the June rice straw is so green that one day's sun is not enough to
dry it and so the tying will not begin until to-morrow.
November 2.
Seven and a half acres cut again to-day and Monday's cutting tied up and
put in little cocks in the field. Though we have only had the few hands
living on the place, the work is getting on finely. The sky is somewhat
overcast, but I trust it does not mean rain.
November 3.
It began to rain late last evening, and poured all night. I could not
sleep for thinking of my rice on the stubble. That which is stacked may
not be much hurt, but that lying untied on the stubble will be terribly
injured. During all the beautiful weather of the past two weeks I was
eager to get the field harvested, but Marcus said it was not quite ripe
enough, and when rice is cut underripe the grain is soft and mashes up
in the pounding, making a very poor quality of rice; so I was forced to
wait.
[Illustration: "It is tied into sheaves, which the negroes do very
skilfully, with a wisp of the rice itself."]
November 4.
Reports from Casa Bianca are terrible. The gale of east wind we have had
forced in the sea water till it swept over the banks, and only the tops
of the stacks are to be seen above the water and it is still raining.
Marcus had to put a boat in the fields and he paddled down over all the
banks to examine the condition of the rice in Marshfield.
November 7.
To-day I moved from the pineland to the plantation (Cherokee). There
has been no ice, but we have had three heavy frosts and I think the
vegetation sufficiently killed to make it safe.
November 10.
A glorious day after all the rain. I have not written for some days
because things are too depressing all around me. When they get very
bad I cannot bear to write them down. Saturday I paid out $75, the
amount it usually takes to put Marshfield in the barn-yard, and it is
still in the field. The turning and drying of the rice have been very
expensive. To-day I went down and was much relieved to see it in such
good condition. Marcus greeted me with that subtle flattery of which
the darkies are masters, a cheerful, respectful, hearty greeting and
then, "Miss, de Laud mus' be love yer, ma'am! I neber see sech ting, I
was shock wen I see de rice, fu' it ain't damage none tall, yes, ma'am
de Laud must sho'ly love yer!" I expressed my gratitude for the great
mercy, for indeed it looks wonderfully well. One flat, the _Sarah_, was
loaded to-day. She was to have had eight acres put in, but when they got
seven on she began to leak and no more could be put on. I have ordered
hands down from Cherokee to bring her up the river by hand, for she is
leaking too much to be left loaded until Saturday, when I have ordered
the tug to tow the others up.
[Illustration: "The field with its picturesque workers."]
November 15.
Down at Casa Bianca again, in the field all day, the hands toting rice
to _78_, my largest flat. She is expected to carry nine acres. It is
lovely down on the banks, and my English friend, an artist, who is
sketching the field with its picturesque workers, is enthusiastic over
the wonderful soft colors and the enchanting haze over all. I will have
to borrow a flat, for _Sarah_ is leaking too much to be brought back
from Cherokee and _78_ and _White House_ cannot carry all the rice.
November 19.
The tug brought the three flats at daylight this morning. I could
not get all three unloaded, but the rice from two is safely stowed in
the mill and the other will have to take its chances in the flat till
Monday. The hands worked well to-day, and were very merry and danced
for my artist friend. A man came bringing $2 to buy two wagon loads of
rice straw. It is in great demand and it is hard to refuse to sell it
when people want it so much. I let this darky have the two loads. I have
always given away a great deal but I have to deny myself that pleasure
this year, for I have twenty-eight head of cattle, not to speak of the
horses, to get through the winter, and the crop is so short.
November 20.
Marshfield turned out 737½ bushels in spite of storm and salt. Now, if
I can only get a decent price for it.
November 25.
Drove down to Gregory to sell my rice in the rough, as I have not yet
got samples of that I sent to mill in October. Sold it for 42½ cents
per bushel, $313.43 for the 737½ bushels! "Alas, poor Yorick."
CHEROKEE, November 27.
Rode on horseback to Peaceville to-day to get the mail, and brought back
a very heavy mail and two books which have been generously sent to the
Book Club; and not content with that, saw some very nice salt fish at
the store and bought two pounds and brought that home too.
I have given Ruth holiday since moving, and am using Romola. She is a
delightful saddle horse so that I have been riding everywhere instead
of driving, and I do enjoy it. Romola has a history.
One of my hands some years ago got into trouble and came to me in great
distress to borrow quite a large sum of money. I lent it to him and two
years passed without his making the least effort to pay it, though he
had made good crops and shipped over a hundred bushels of rice of his
own to market. So one spring I said to him,
"As you will not pay your debt yourself, you had better make your horse
pay it. I will rent her from you and use her until the debt is paid."
He seemed very pleased at the idea and brought his mare the next day.
I had often felt sorry for her; she struck me as having once been some
one's pet and a pleasure horse—a dark chestnut, with a nice air about
her. When I asked her name he gave the name of one dear to me which I
could not bear to use, so I said: "I will call her Romola, after you."
This delighted him, his name being Romulus, pronounced by his friends
Ramblus.
I found to my dismay that Romola was too weak to do any work when she
first came and I had the pleasure of feeding her for a month before she
could be of any use. Romulus had only fed her, and that lightly, when
he used her, which might be once a week or once a fortnight; the rest
of the time she was turned loose in the woods to hunt her living.
After being well fed and groomed for a while she became quite useful,
and at the end of nine months the debt was paid and I returned her to
him. He brought her back, however, at once and said:—
"Miss, she look so fine you kin keep um fu' she feed. I ain't got no
co'n. I ain't got no pertikler use fur um."
So I kept her through that winter and in the spring he came to say he
had received an offer of $45 for her and he was going to sell her. I
told him I would give him $50 and so Romola became mine, and she is a
delightful creature.
Having known evil days she appreciates her home and is always cheerful.
Her gaits are very pleasant, easier than Ruth's, but she is a great
jumper, no fence can hold her, she skims over like a bird. When I try
to get her near enough to a gate for my short arms to reach the latch
there is always a danger of her leaping it.
She comes up to it nicely and stops where a man's long arm could open
it with ease, but for me it is hopeless. I ride off and bring her back
two or three times with the same result, then she loses patience and
prepares to jump.
Green has given me notice that he wishes to leave my service the end
of this month, so I must find some one else. He milks the five cows and
ploughs a quarter of an acre of oats a day and thinks he is overworked;
told Chloe yesterday he was broken down with hard work!
Just at the end of the war, when things were being adjusted after the
upheaval of the Emancipation Proclamation, my mother was trying to
arrange a contract which would be just to all parties, so that the lands
might be worked and the starvation and want which was threatening this
region prevented. The intelligent negroes saw the necessity and gave
what help they could, acquiescing in the terms of the contract. The
inferior element among the negroes was very turbulent and rebellious
and it was a very exciting scene.
At my mother's request a United States soldier had been detailed by
the commandant in Gregory to be present, witness the contract and keep
order. During the turmoil and uproar the soldier said:—
"I should think you'd rather get white help."
From time to time it has recurred to me with renewed humor, and now I
think the time has come when I really must try and "get white help."