CHAPTER IV

Thanksgiving, November 28.

I rose very early so as to make the long drive to Gregory in time for

church. I sent Chloe and Dab out to collect holly and moss, for my

thanksgiving service is always to lay some tokens of loving memory in

the sacred spot where my loved ones lie.

The morning was beautiful, but very cold; as the sun gained power it got

warmer and the air was delightful. I was detained getting off so that

I was late for church, but spent a long time in the churchyard placing

the quantity of brilliant holly, the berries so red and the leaves so

green, in beds of the solemn gray moss to my satisfaction.

When I finished I drove to Woodstock to spend the rest of the day and

night. On my way I saw by the roadside two young people having a picnic

_à deux_—a pretty woman, very fair in a Marie Louise blue shirtwaist.

I thought what a charming way to pass their holiday, taking their lunch

in the woods, the brown carpet of pine needles spread at their feet. As

I came abreast of them the man crossed the road and said:—

"I wish to speak to you, ma'am. I've been waiting for you. You may

remember you passed us driving in a wagon this morning? The man whose

wagon we were in and who was driving, said: 'That's the lady for you;

she's got plenty of land and money and you'd better see her.'"

I laughed and said, "He was right about the land, but much astray in the

other statement. I have about a thousand acres of land, but not a cent

of money."

"Well, ma'am, it's the land I'm after. I want to farm. I've been working

with a big company at my trade, steam-fitting and carpenter's work,

and they've laid off their hands in this tight spell, and I've took a

notion to go back to farming for a while. I was raised on a farm an' was

a-ploughin' cotton when I was 12 years old—I don't belong to this State.

I come here last year for my wife's health. She loves the country, so

I would like to take about thirty acres on shares."

I asked if he could manage that much alone. He pointed to his pretty

wife and said:—

"She's just the workin'est woman you ever see an' she'll do her share,

I reckon."

I told him to come up to Cherokee as soon as he could and look over the

land; that I had a cottage which used to be our schoolhouse when I was a

child, which I thought would be very comfortable for him after a little

work. I asked him what shares he proposed. He said:—

"In course I don't know the way you works shares in this State, but at

home I rents my farm to my brother-in-law an' I furnishes the team and

feeds it and the land is under good fence an' we divides the cost of

fertilizer an' he does all the work an' we shares the crop in half; he

takes one-half and gives me one-half."

I told him that would suit me entirely. I had my land under good wire

fencing and would furnish a team and feed it.

I drove on—I have always said I was the special child of Providence and

here is an instance—waylaid on the road by the very person I was wanting

to find and have been looking for in vain.

I was late for luncheon, but was forgiven in view of such unforeseen

interruption.

WOODSTOCK, November 29.

This morning it poured torrents, so I did not start until midday, when

it was not raining so hard. I drove through the terrific neighborhood

road to the ferry only to find the wire broken and the flat drifting

down the river.

In the intense cold and wet discomfort, I had food for devout

thanksgiving that I had not been a little earlier and so been in the

drifting flat. I turned and drove three miles up the river to another

ferry, so that I did not get home until very nearly dark.

When within a mile of Cherokee I met my farmer on his way back to town;

he had hired a horse and gone up to look over the land, and though it

was a most discouraging day and he was wet to the skin and very cold and

very sore, for he said he had not ridden for years, he was delighted

with the land. He said, however, he feared the repairs on the house

would cost more than a renter for only one year would pay, and that was

all that he now proposed to rent.

I told him I was willing to put the repairs in and that while they were

going on he could occupy two rooms that I had elsewhere, as he expressed

great eagerness to come at once if he came at all. So there on the

road in the rain, it was agreed that he should come up on the boat next

Wednesday.

I am so worn out with the long drive and the intense cold that I can

scarcely make myself write, but apparently my "white help" is in sight

and I must record it.

December 3.

The boat blew very early yesterday morning. I had sent the two wagons

up to meet Mr. and Mrs. Z. and their belongings, and they arrived with

very neatly packed clean new furniture, his fine tool chest being the

most impressive thing.

Mr. Z. very soon got everything in position and the cooking stove up

and going, and this morning he started work upon the cottage.

Fortunately I had some shingles on hand or I could not have undertaken

it, but only 1000 will have to be bought. The plastering is down, and

that is the most serious consideration now. The sides are good, but the

ceiling is much broken.

I drove Romola to the store to get the nails, etc., which were wanted,

and then, feeling very much lulled and soothed by the thought of having

some one who worked with such vim and needed no looking after, I spent

a delightful, restful evening reading the "Memoirs of Madame Vigée Le

Brun." Most interesting and inspiring to read of such a woman—such great

gifts and above all such wonderful diligence—not an idle moment did she

allow herself; her art and the social labors belonging thereto occupied

every moment.

CHEROKEE, December 5.

I had to go to Gregory to-day to get the check for my rice. Small

though it is, I need it to pay for thrashing, etc. I determined to take

my colt Dandy over the ferry for the first time, as that would give a

spice of enjoyment to an otherwise trying day, so had the pole put on

the buckboard and Ruth and Dandy put in. He drives charmingly in double

harness, but the ferry is a very trying thing at first to a horse—just

a long, flat boat, only wide enough to admit of driving in with care,

without railing front or back, and propelled across the Black River,

which is very deep, by two negroes pulling on a wire slack enough to

allow the passage of tugboats and small steamers. If, by chance, one

of these comes puffing along while one is in the flat, it takes a very

sensible horse to stand it.

My horses are all wonderfully intelligent and understand a reassuring

explanation accompanied by a pat and loving word, but Dan is so young

and frolicsome that he might not stop to listen. He is a picture pony,

with the grace and activity of a kitten, and as plucky and stanch as

possible, but terribly mischievous; has killed two calves for me. He

is not yet broken to saddle, for I was afraid of putting much weight

on him while so young. Breaking him to double harness has been a great

pleasure to me, for he has never given any real trouble. I put him

first in a very light vehicle with Mollie, the doyenne of the stable,

who, though old (22) and reliable, is very spirited and pulled up with

him beautifully, yet didn't mind his prancing and dancing. I didn't put

him in single for fear he would come into general use before he was old

enough to stand it.

[Illustration: "The Ferry."]

One day Jim came to me and begged me to allow Jack and himself to put

Dan in the little single wagon. I hesitated, as I was too busy to go and

see it done, but Jim was so eager for it that finally I consented, told

him to take the body off of the little wagon, leaving only the running

gear, which would be light, and told him only one of them must be in

the wagon at a time. I did not go out for about an hour, when I saw Jim

leading Dan to the stable, no wagon to be seen anywhere. I asked where

the wagon was. His answer was:—

"Dan went beautiful, ma'am, an' we drove him all over the plantation."

"Well," I said, "then, where is the wagon?" Most reluctantly Jim went

on: "Then, ma'am, Jack an' me thought as he'd done so well we wud jes'

take him down the avenue an' haul in that wood by the gate." "What,"

I cried, "that heavy oak wood?" Lower and lower went poor Jim's head.

"Yes, ma'am." "And what happened then?" I was determined to extract

the whole story, so as to know how to act. "Then, ma'am, Dan he pull

fine till we cum to rise the hill, an' then he wudn't pull the wagon

up." "Did Jack and you take off some of the wood, and one of you push

behind?" "No, ma'am, we never thought of that, but we tried to make him

pull it, an' when we whipped him he just pranced and threw himself down

till we had to take him out for fear he'd hurt himself."

I was very angry. Nothing more injudicious could have been done to

the dear little beast who up to this time had thought human beings all

powerful and all wise. "Take him back to the wagon, Jim, but give Jack

time to run ahead and take off half the load; and put the logs entirely

out of sight, Jack, so that Dan may not know that any change has been

made in the wagon."

Jack ran ahead and Jim followed with Dan, I walking by him patting and

shaming him by turns, and assuring him that he had lost his potato for

that day. The wagon was halfway up the steep ascent in the avenue, the

only little rise for miles in this flat country. It is hard to believe

that those two men had put a genuine load of wood on that wagon, but

they had, live oak, which is heavy and strong as iron.

To make things worse, the horses were all loose in the park, and Dan

whinnied after them and they answered. While Jim was putting Dan in

I called Mollie and had her halter put on and kept her near Dandy. He

stood quietly until Jim took up the reins and clucked to him, then he

reared and plunged and bucked, but I made Jack push behind, so that

gradually the top of the hill was reached, and then I led Mollie ahead

in the direction of the stable yard as though I had forgotten all about

Dandy, but told Jim to use the whip freely if necessary, for that wagon

had to be brought into the yard by him or he would be ruined. Jack must

push behind with all his might so that the pony should not be strained,

but come he must.

Jim and Jack both pleaded to leave the wagon till afternoon and then put

him in, but I said: "You went against my orders in putting the load on,

but having started it you have got to carry it through." Dan proceeded

to do all that a kitten would do under similar circumstances—he doubled

himself up, he threw himself down, he stood on his hind legs and pawed

the air, but finally he leaped forward and took wagon, Jack, Jim, and

all up the avenue and into the stable yard at a full run. Mollie and

I just cleared the road in time, but nothing was broken, and Dan was

in the sweetest humor and no harm was done, for I drove him in double

harness the next day and he was quieter than usual; but I have not

allowed him put in single harness again, for I want him to forget this

episode entirely first.

To return to my trip to Gregory—I started at 12:30, Dan and Ruth in fine

spirits and quite playful. When we reached the ferry the man in charge

begged me to take the horses out and let him roll the buckboard in and

have the horses led in, but I was not willing for that. I have to cross

the ferry whenever I drive to the railroad, and my horses must learn

to go in quietly, for I often cross without a servant. I had Jim walk

ahead and stand in the flat at the point where the horses should stop

and then I drove in. The water showed between the flat and the shore, a

moving streak of light, which Dan examined carefully, and then snorted.

As I touched him lightly with the whip he made a flying leap into the

flat and stood perfectly still for a moment, nostrils distended, ears

erect like a bronze horse. Before he had time to realize the situation

and that we were moving, I slipped out and went to him with an apple

and a few sweet potatoes, which he loves. As he smelled them in my

hand he relaxed his tense aspect and in a few seconds he was eating as

contentedly as though he had been accustomed to a flat daily.

On our return trip he went quietly into the flat and turned his head at

once to see if I was coming with a potato, and I do not think he will

ever give any trouble at the ferry in future. It was wonderful to see

how Ruth did all she could to assist in getting him in quietly. I think

she remembered her own first trip, how frightened she was and how I

calmed her in the same way with sweet potatoes.

I got through all my business and got back to Cherokee at 5:30, which

was, I think, doing well for Dandy's first long drive, thirty miles

and the ferry, and he was just as gay in the last mile as he was in the

first.

December 19.

Punch came to-day to ask me how much he still owed me. It was hard

to tell, for two years ago I sold him a fine plough horse for $50. He

had just moved on to my place; wanted to rent land and plant corn and

cotton. I heard he was a fine ploughman and his wife a good hoe hand,

and I was quite cheerful when he said instead of hiring an animal if

I would give him a chance to pay for it out of his crop he would like

to buy this horse from me. I had more horses than I needed and readily

consented to omit any cash payment and wait until the end of the year.

At first the new broom swept very clean. Punch worked hard and his wife

was very stirring and I was delighted; but as the spring ripened into

summer and the days grew long and the suns hot, and I moved to the

pineland, Punch and Judy began to rest in the shade of the big trees

in the pasture, and the weeds grew apace in the crop, so that when the

autumn came the results were pitifully small, and I did not exact the

payment of the debt, but told Punch, as he was an expert at shingle

making, he could cut shingles in my swamp, where there was plenty of

cypress, and pay his debt in that way. This proposal seemed to delight

him, and he promised to go to work at once. But at the end of two years

he had only paid $27 on his horse, and no rent at all for the land he

had planted, and he ceased to feed his horse during the winter, so that

it died.

[Illustration: His wife was very stirring.]

He was in great distress, and in view of his misfortune I forgave him

the debt and urged him to work his crop this year. He promised renewed

effort and I hoped anew. About midsummer he came to me in terrible

trouble. His boy had been arrested and put in jail. He was a boy of

about 18 years; his son, but not his wife's; but she in the kindness

of her heart when she heard that the child was neglected and starving,

took him when 2 years old and cared for him as her own, and had brought

him up more carefully than most. The boy had hired a bicycle in Conway,

fifteen miles distant, for three days, and had come to visit his father

and remained three months. The owners of the wheel had great difficulty

in tracing him, but naturally when found they put him in jail.

Punch and Judy, anguish stricken and weeping, came to me for help. I

told them the only possible way to help the boy was to let him take the

punishment the law decreed. It might save him from being a confirmed

thief. All in vain I talked; they pleaded with me, weeping, to lend them

the $15 they needed to get him out. They had neither of them slept in

their bed since the news first came; they could not go to bed knowing he

was in jail. When I asked where they slept they answered on the floor,

without mattress or bedding of any sort, and they looked it. Judy said:

"Miss, yo' tink I kin git een my comfutuble high bed en kno' dat chile,

my own boy I raise, is punish een jail. No, ma'am, I tell Punch neber

will I git een dat bed agin till my boy is save."

Unfortunately I had the money in the house, and I gave it. They had

sold one of their cows and got the other $15, and Punch went and paid

the $30 and the suit was dropped. No sooner was the boy free than

he was arrested again for robbing the post-office, and then their

disappointment and distress was so keen that they became silent. Judy

only said to me: "Miss, I wash me han' of de boy, now; me heart is

broke."

It was pathetic in the extreme. I tried to encourage Punch to do some

work and pay me in that way, as he had promised, but in vain. I needed

shingles more than ever, but with all my efforts he still owes $10 on

this last debt. Now he came to tell me that he was going away. He put

it with great delicacy and began by saying, "Miss, I dun'no how 'tis,

I kyant please yo'; I try en I try, en somehow I kayn't cum it. Yo'

kno', my missis, a man kayn't do mo' dan 'e kin. Man p'int, but God

disapp'int."

I could not help laughing at this new version of "L'homme propose, et

Dieu dispose." "Oh, Punch," I said, "I think you have got the wrong

end of that. I think in this case it is God who points and man who

disappoints; but certainly you can go, only you must do something to

pay me that $10 before you leave, for I am in need of the money, and I

have waited on you as long as I possibly can. I am perfectly willing to

take the shingles, and it would not take you long to pay up the debt."

It was in vain, unless I had the Sheriff take his cow, which I could not

bear to do. He said he would pay it by degrees next year, and I was so

glad to have him go, that I gave up the effort to get anything from him.

[Illustration: Day after day I met Judy coming out of her patch.]

The two acres of cotton he rented were very near the field I planted.

He and Judy did not work theirs, so there was a fine field of grass and

weeds, with a few stalks of very tall cotton. Notwithstanding the rarity

of the stalks in their bed, day after day I met Judy coming out of

her patch with an immense bundle of cotton on her head. Jim would grow

furious when we met her, and now and then break out: "I work yo' cotton

an' keep it so clean, f'r Punch pick." There is no doubt that he was

right, but no one could ever catch Judy anywhere but in her own patch,

where the same few bolls of cotton showed out every day. Jim begged me

to send them off before another crop season, so I am glad to have them

go, only I do wish I could have got my money.

December 17.

The Zs getting on finely. She is a wonderfully capable woman, and I

think a very nice one. She seems so pleased to be in the country again

and is eager to take the milking—wants me to send off Gibby and let her

milk.

I told her that she could take the Guernsey cow up, that as soon as

the calf got big Gibby said she was dry and he could not get any milk,

but that I knew it was only because he was a poor milker, and I would

be delighted if she would feed her well and milk her; I knew she could

bring back the milk. She did not seem very pleased, but consented.

She is evidently not a strong woman, and if a bad spell of weather

should come she could not go out to milk, and I would just be left

milkless. Better go slowly, I think, and not upset things.

I told Chloe to give them a pint of milk every morning and every

evening. The cows are not giving much, but then I am not feeding them

as I usually do.

The stringency in the money market affects everything. There is no sale

for anything—cotton, cattle, horses—I have tried to sell anything and

everything, but in vain.

December 20.

To-day I signed a contract with Mr. Z. which I got a lawyer to draw up.

He has been very anxious about the signing before this, but I thought

there was no great hurry.

He and his wife have been very diligent, working early and late, setting

out a new strawberry bed and getting land ready for other things. She

has planted celery very successfully and says this land is just suited

for it, and wants to try a quarter of an acre in it. They are charmed

with the ever flowing artesian well and are arranging little ditches to

irrigate in dry weather. Altogether I feel so peaceful and content that

it is hard to write regularly.

Christmas Night.

Had a peaceful, happy day, many loving tokens of the blessed season of

good-will. It is always a pleasure to make the darkies happy with small

presents and I included the Zs in my offerings of good-will.

Besides many little things to eat I presented them with a pair of

Plymouth rocks, a beautiful pullet and cock, as they are anxious to

start a poultry yard. This afternoon she came in with an offering for

me, a necklace of fish scale flowers made by herself, which she had told

me the other day she sold for 50 cents.

I was quite touched by it and by her happiness over the fowls.

Altogether I feel very thankful that I have found such satisfactory

people. He talked to me a great deal to-day and said he would give $1000

if he could get rid of his evil temper. I told him a thousand prayers

would perhaps accomplish his desire better than the same number of

dollars. He went on:—

"I've been a powerful wicked man. I've shot two men an' been shot twice

myself and I've stabbed one man nine times and been all cut to pieces

myself, but for two years now, since I met this wife, I've quit drinkin'

an' I'm tryin' to live a good life."

I told him I felt quite sure if he earnestly tried he would succeed and

that I would do all I could to help him. I felt a little disturbed for

a moment, but a full confession of one's sin is often the beginning of

a new life, and the idea of helping a man to a higher, better life adds

a new interest to the experiment.

January 1.

Sat up last night to see the old year out, the year which has brought

us sorrow and distress, yet there is great sadness in seeing it go. In

the last moments of the dying year I sank on my knees and prayed that

this whole land might be blessed and guided through the coming year.

The day is brilliantly beautiful and we went to our simple little

service in Peaceville. Dear, frail Mrs. F. had made a great effort to

get to church "to return thanks for her many blessings." Eighty-five

years have passed over her, the first half surrounded by all the

comforts and conveniences that money can give. She now has the bare

necessities of life, no cook and none of the conveniences of modern

houses that make cooking easy. She is always cheerful, always dainty and

beautiful to the eye, and one never hears of what she lacks or needs,

nor of the possessions of the past.

To-night Chloe came to tell me Elihu is very sick with pain in his side.

I sent her out at once with some tea and milk, a mustard plaster I made,

and told her to see it put on. She is always so good and willing. Though

it was 9 o'clock and quite a walk to Elihu's house, she went cheerfully.

They never have anything prepared for sickness. There is a great deal

of pneumonia about and I want to take Elihu's case in time. With all

his faults he is one of the best men on the place.

January 4.

I am puzzled beyond measure to know what to do for another year. It

is impossible to go on planting rice if it is to sell at 40 cents

per bushel. It is an expensive crop, and if one borrows money, as I

did last year, at a high rate of interest, and puts a mortgage on the

plantation, it very soon means ruin. I have no idea how I am to pay off

that mortgage of $1000 this year, but hope the bank will be willing to

renew.

Instead of being anxious to have the usual first of January powwow over,

as I generally am, I shall do all I can to put it off, for how can one

do one's share in a powwow when one does not know what to say? I have

absolutely nothing to propose. As far as my seed rice will go I will

rent rice land to the negroes, and if I had money of my own I would go

on and plant, for it seems to me the complete giving up of the staple

industry in a country is really a revolution. Our labor understands no

other cultivation; the whole population lives on rice, white and black,

especially black. It is a wonderfully nutritious and sustaining food,

and if suddenly its cultivation ceases there will be much suffering.

Our cattle live on the straw, it being the strongest and most palatable

of the straws. My horses will not touch fresh oat straw while there

is a wisp of old rice straw to be had; the cows and pigs are fed on

the flour, a gray substance that comes from the grain as the chaff is

removed in the pounding mill. Mr. Studebake, a great Hereford cattle

man, told me that rice flour and pea-vine hay make a perfect ration for

cows, one supplying exactly what the other lacks. If rice is given up

the cattle and pigs will have to go too.

January 10.

To-day I went down to Casa Bianca to receive Marcus's resignation of his

place as foreman. He is going to move "to town," to enjoy the money he

has made in my service and planting rice. He has bought land there and

built four houses, which he rents out. He is a preacher, or, as he says,

"an ordain minister." I have wondered he stayed these last few years,

but he has made so good an income that his wife was willing to forego

the joys of the town; he owns a horse and buggy, three very fine cows

and calves, and three splendid oxen.

I feel very sad at parting with him; he has been here so long, and

as foreman he has been most satisfactory in every way. When he turned

over the keys of the barn to me I almost broke down, for I hate change

anyway, and I really do not know to whom I can give the keys.

King came to beg me to give him a house. He is absolutely worthless and

unreliable, but he spoke of his large family and how necessary it was

for him to get where he could pursue his business of shadding, and Casa

Bianca was the very best pitch of tide for the shad fishing. He gave me

an idea, and I told him he could have the house if he would give me two

shad a week during the shad season, two and a half months. This he most

willingly agreed to do. I never have been able to get any tribute at

all from the shad nets, which are set in front of my doors all winter.

Five or six men shad there regularly, but they elude all demands, and I

rarely eat a shad, as they are too great a luxury for me to buy unless

I have company; they are like the wild ducks which swarm in the rice

fields at night in the winter, "so near and yet so far."

After much thought and uncertainty I decided to give the keys to Nat;

he is willing and knows all the sheep and cattle well, and on the whole

is the best one on the place. It is a mere form, for there is nothing

left in the barn, but Nat is very proud and happy and the other men very

sulky.

January 12.

Cæsar came up from Casa Bianca with Jonas and King to say they could not

stand Nat as head man and to indicate that he, Cæsar, was the man for

the place. I said to them: "Do you know why I chose Nat? I looked over

my book and found he was the only man who for years has paid his debts

to me. Every one else on the place has borrowed money when in distress,

or got a cow from me on time and left the debt hanging, in spite of my

reminding them from time to time that I needed the money; but every time

Nat has borrowed money from me or bought an ox he has paid up promptly

as soon as his crop came in. Now, this shows fidelity and honesty, and,

therefore, I have given the keys to Nat, and if you do not like it you

can all leave."

They were dumb at this. Then I asked each one how much he owed me,

bringing out my book to verify. Not one owes less than $8, which they

have owed over a year. "Now," I said, "don't you think I had good reason

for choosing Nat to carry the keys?" They looked sheepish and departed.

CHEROKEE, January 13.

Last night at 2 o'clock Chloe woke me to say Mrs. Z. was very ill and

Mr. Z. wanted a horse to go for the doctor. She had sent Dab to wake

Gibby to go for old Florinda, the plantation nurse, spoken of as the

"Mid" or the "Granny," who lives some distance off across a creek. I

told her Mr. Z. could take Nana to go for the doctor.

I dressed rapidly and came down. Mrs. Z.'s face was crimson and she

seemed unconscious. He was bending over her crying like a child and

wailing out all the time, "O God, help her! I know I'm wicked, but spare

her!" It was distressing.

Chloe was bathing her feet in hot water and doing all she could. I

rubbed her for two hours and applied mustard until the nurse came, and

about daylight she seemed relieved. I had not seen how the nurse could

be got, but Dab's account was exciting.

[Illustration: "Old Florinda, the plantation nurse."]

He with difficulty woke Gibby, who when he heard there was sickness at

the "big house" got up quickly and they went together to the edge of

the creek, where they shouted and knocked on a big cypress tree with

sticks until the old woman came out of the house down to the edge of

the creek, on the other side. When she understood it was sickness at the

"big house" she jumped into her paddling boat which was tied there and

without going back into the house paddled herself across, and when she

landed, Dab said "she tie up her coat to her knee an' start to walk so

fast that Gibby en me had to run to keep up."

This is an old time plantation sick nurse, who, though now very old,

flies to relieve the sick with enthusiasm. She brought herbs with her

and soon relieved the patient. This morning I lent the horse and buggy

to Mr. Z. to go down to Gregory and consult the doctor.

January 14.

Last night Mr. Z. came to ask me to lend him a lantern every evening.

I said I would with pleasure. He said he wanted to pull corn stalks at

night, that Maud, his wife, could do it two hours every night and not

waste daylight on it.

I said I thought if he worked all day it would be as much as he could

do, but he could always get the lantern. He went on in a conversational

way to say:—

"I've got a fine burn on them piles o' trash."

"I hope it is well out, Mr. Z. There is such a gale it is no time for

burning trash. I hope you saw the fire entirely out."

"No, Ma'am," he said, "I've got it started good, an' it's burnin' fine."

I said not another word, but flew through the house to the pantry,

seized the lantern and called to Dab to follow me. We ran at full speed

to the barn-yard, where not 200 feet from the threshing mill (which cost

$5000) and four large barns three bonfires were raging, the flames and

sparks whirling and licking out in every direction up to high heaven,

it seemed to me.

There was nothing to be done but watch until the piles burned down. Then

I had Dab cover the lightwood posts and beams which Mr. Z. had put on

to insure a good burn, with earth.

If I could have got at other hands I would have called them, but it is

half a mile to the "street," and there was nothing to do but help Dab

myself as much as I could. I had sent him for hoe and spade and shovel,

and he worked splendidly.

Mr. Z. had followed me down, also his wife, though I begged her not to

come out, having been so ill yesterday. He would not help in any way

to put out the fire and kept saying the wind was blowing in the other

direction.

"Yes," I said, "but the wind does not take long to shift, and if it did

change there would not be a building left on the place. Dwelling-house

and all would go."

I noticed that he got very white as he stood and watched me, but I was

too actively employed to watch him, but I thought the tears were running

down his cheeks as he stood in the fierce red light. Mrs. Z. hovered

around a while talking to him in a low tone and then she left.

When Dab and I got through I had the shovel in my hand and wanted to

take the lantern. I handed the shovel to Mr. Z., saying, "Will you take

the shovel, Mr. Z.?"

Fortunately, I had the full light of the lantern on his face, and I was

shocked; he did not move. I fixed my eyes full upon him and repeated,

"You did not hear me, Mr. Z.; will you take the shovel?"

Slowly he put out his hand and took it. I still fixed him with my eye,

until he turned and walked toward the house, and I followed him. Dab

had gone on before. It was 11 o'clock when I got back.

January 16.

Chloe is in a terrible state of mind, Mr. Z. has frightened her so. Last

night he said to her:—

"That missis of yours had a very narrow squeak for her life last night.

Twice I had my hand raised to kill her and Miss Z. pulled me back, en

at last when she handed me that shovel an' told me to take it I cum as

near killin' her right there en buryin' her up with dirt with that same

shovel, jest as she had buried up my fires, as I ever cum to anything

in my life—en more than that, if she goes to givin' me orders I'll do

it yet, en le' me tell you you'd better not tell her this or I'll tackle

you. I don't 'low people to fool with me."

Chloe is enough of an actress to convince him that her silence was

assured. I thanked her for her confidence and told her she need not be

anxious. The fact of the light enabling me to look him in the eye had

saved me, and the danger was past.

January 17.

Was busy by the smoke-house this morning when Mr. Z. passed by. He

has not spoken to me since the night he set the fires in the gale of

wind and I had them put out. He has written me several notes demanding

things, to which I have sent verbal answers, and I felt it was time to

put a stop to that sort of thing, so as he passed I said in a clear,

loud voice:—

"Good morning, Mr. Z."

I was bending over a table at the time, brushing off the hams

preparatory to smoking them. He took no notice but passed on as though

deaf. I straightened, up and said again in a clear voice:—

"Mr. Z., you did not perhaps hear me; I said 'Good morning.'"

He stopped and slowly raised his hat, said good morning and passed on,

and I knew I had scored another victory.

About half an hour afterward he came back and said he would like to see

me in the field where he was ploughing. I told him I would be at leisure

in a minute and would join him in the field.

I went in to get my coat and told Chloe where I was going. She implored

me not to go, but I soothed her fears, trying to laugh her out of them.

When I got out into the field Mr. Z. asked me some trivial questions

about where to plant things, and then he said:—

"You went too far with me the other night, Mrs. Pennington."

"Indeed?" I said.

"Yes," he said. "You told me I had no sense."

"I certainly didn't tell a story, Mr. Z., if I said so. I thought as I

stood there and saw that fire swirling around in that gale that I had

never seen any one over three years old do a more foolish thing."

We faced each other squarely for a moment. "I saw murder in your eye,

but I'm not afraid of wild beasts."

Gradually his face relaxed and I saw the demon had fled for the time,

but it was exciting.

After this he talked naturally and pleasantly about what he was going

to plant. As I left I said:—

"Remember, you can plant the crops where and how you please, I don't

want to be consulted about that, you understand it; but never set a fire

burning without asking me."

January 23.

Yesterday being Sunday, I invited Mr. and Mrs. Z. to come in and have

service with me, which they did. They went home and made a careful

toilet and returned with Sunday clothes, and hats, and kid gloves

closely buttoned. I found it a little embarrassing to read the church

service, but went through manfully, and a short, simple, clever sermon.

Life has become very interesting with this new problem. I told Mr. Z.

the other night that I thought he had better go to my neighbor's who has

a nice house in the pineland, and that I thought it would be healthier

for his wife, and that of course we could break the contract by mutual

consent, but he answered promptly that he did not wish to go anywhere

else, that the thirty acres he had taken was the finest land he ever saw

anywhere and he was going to make a pile of money for me and a pile for

himself; he had been all over my neighbor's land and it did not please

him as well.

I wrote to my two lawyer nephews a full account of what had happened,

and they both wrote, "For heaven's sake, break the contract!" But I

must bide my time to do that. The arrangement was that no money was

to be paid at present; all that I owe him for carpenter's work on his

house was to be taken from my share of the crop. If I were to break the

contract I would have to pay him all that at once, and I have not the

money. My cotton has not sold and there is nothing else to look to.

Ran out to meet mail man this morning to get a letter off and found

that his horse was quite sick—could scarcely walk. Sent Dab in for the

aconite and spoon and gave the horse a full dose, and in a few moments

he was able to get on again.

Have had twenty cords of live oak cut and hauled to the river, but

cannot sell it in Gregory, as I hoped.

January 28.

Yesterday had Green take Dandy, my beautiful pony, to Mr. F. in

Gregory to be sold. If I can sell him now, I can pay my taxes. He is

so beautifully formed and so easily kept and so gay and so fond of me

that it is a great trial to send him off; he would make a splendid polo

pony, but if I can make him pay the tax I must do it, for I still have

three grown horses and two colts.

February 2.

Up till 1 o'clock last night with Mrs. Z. She was unconscious for two

hours and pulseless for fifteen minutes.

It is dreadful, I said to myself last night as I was trying to pour

brandy down her throat and restore her to life. "You poor young thing,

if ever you get up again I will try to get you back to your own people."

She has four married sisters in her home, wherever that may be; for some

reason they do not give clear information as to where they came from.

February 13.

Mrs. Z. told me that she wanted to go home and Mr. Z. is willing for

her to go, but will not go himself, and she is not willing to leave him.

She knew he would go right back to drinking and killing people, both of

which amiable weaknesses he had given up since they met.

I told her I was not willing to have him stay without her, but not to

tell him that, as it would enrage him; just to stick to it that she

would not leave him. She gets paler and thinner every day, and I know

he cannot hold out. I said yesterday if I only had the money to pay him

up in full I would propose to do so and break the contract, and Chloe

said at once:—

"Miss Patience, le' me len' yer de money. Ef yu jes send me down to town

I kin git um from de bank fer you. Do please, ma'am, le' dem go."

[Illustration: "Miss Patience, le' me len' yer de money."]

So I spoke to Mr. Z., saying, though it was most inconvenient, if he

wished to go with his wife, which was most necessary in her state of

health, I would consent to break the contract and pay him the $60 I owed

him for work. Most reluctantly he consented.

I sent Chloe to Gregory in the pony carriage, and she brought back the

money. I wrote a note for it at 6 per cent, and made her pin it in her

bank-book in case of my death.

February 16.

Paid Mr. Z. up in full for services and gave him a note for his little

furniture, and bade them good-by, sending them to Gregory in the wagon

with Nana. I felt quite sorry to part with Mrs. Z. She is a nice woman,

and, poor thing, married to a madman, to whom she is devoted. Thank

heaven he is going and that we part friends. My experiment of white help

is at an end!

He took me over all the work—beautiful strawberry bed, with potatoes

planted, 900 onions set out, celery bed started, all beautifully

prepared. It is sad to think it will soon all be grown up in weeds. I

must take up my burden again.

February 24.

In field all day; having oats ploughed in; bitterly cold north wind

blowing.

February 25.

In oat field again all day. Gibby ploughing with oxen and Green with

Nana.

February 27.

A charming meeting here of the woman's auxiliary. I went out to the oats

field intending to get back before 12, the hour of meeting, but Gibby

went to burn up some patches of cockspurs and let the fire get away into

the pasture, which was terrible. I had to stay and fight it.

I made Green take his plough and make a deep furrow ahead of the fire

round in a large curve and had the women beat it out on the sides.

While I was busy with hands and face blackened Dab came running to tell

me the "company had come" so that I had to rush home and make a very

hurried toilet to open the meeting. We are to sew for an Easter box to

be sent to the mountains of North Carolina.

February 26.

At church to-day Miss E. came up and said: "Miss Patience, going to take

any one home with you to-day?"

I said "no."

"Well, then, I am going to ask you to take me to spend the night. I

haven't seen you for so long."

"With the very greatest pleasure," I answered truthfully.

Miss E. is one of the best women that ever lived and the very best

housekeeper to boot. She knows exactly how much to provide for a family

of four without waste and yet abundantly, and she can arrange for a

table of seventy-five with the same precision; abundance of excellent

food and no waste. With such qualities it seems strange that she should

have now only the position of what Chloe calls "sextant" to our little

village church, and her modest remuneration of two dollars a month is

all that she has in the world.

She was a woman of wealth, but, like so many others, her means all

disappeared with the end of the war, and she has supported herself by

sewing and taking places as housekeeper for a number of years. Now

she begins to show the ravages of time and does not feel she can do

all that a housekeeper should, and for the last six years has lived in

Peaceville, where she had nieces who are devotedly kind to her, but she

will not live with them. She lives alone in a house which belonged to

her mother and where her summers were spent in her youth. It has passed

into other hands, but she is allowed to stay there in the winter as the

house is only rented in summer.

It is very near the church, and she is very happy and a marvel of

cheerfulness and faith—no repining, no complaining. She sometimes takes

in a little sewing still, but for absurdly small prices.

Miss E. is a walking chronicle of the ancestry of every one in the

county, I might almost say in the low country, as the coast is called in

this State, and can tell you who is who emphatically. I enjoyed having

my memory refreshed on many genealogical facts, as I am very weak in

that quarter. I am really devoted to this dear old lady and feel it a

privilege to have her with me.

February 27.

Drove Miss E. home and then began preparing for the paying guests, who

arrived at 2.

March 2.

Finished planting oats at last. I have spent every day in the field for

nearly two weeks—the last few days a joy—just drinking in the delicious

soft air and watching the buds which promise so much.

There is a mystery of hope over everything, the rest of the ideal, and

as I sat on a cedar trunk to-day and looked out into the drowsy blue

of the atmosphere I felt a sense of gratitude to the Great Maker and

Giver of all this beauty—thankful for my blessings; the great blessing

of space and freedom and closeness to nature—yes, and thankful for my

limitations, my sorrows, my privations. Thankful that He has thought me

worthy to suffer and has taught me to be strong. He is beauty and power

and love illimitable and infinite.

March 13.

Jim summoned to Gregory by the extreme illness of his wife, and I have

to turn over the stable and cows to poor Elihu, who can't help taking

the feed and the milk and is the poorest driver in the world; always

touches up the horse that is pulling all the load; yet I am thankful

to have him to fall back on. The storm last fall threw down all the

pine trees on my 350 acres of woodland and there are several thousand

cords of pine wood lying on the ground which I am trying to get cut and

shipped. It has been the habit of many to sell the wood to negroes at

the stump, as they call it, for 25 cents a cord. This I am not willing

to do, and consequently find it very difficult to get the wood cut. I

pay 40 cents a cord for cutting, 30 cents a cord for hauling, and about

30 cents for flatting, and the wood brings $1.50 a cord if it is pine,

and $2 if it is lightwood.

The hands are needing work. I have ten men on Cherokee, and if they

would work I would have money for all my needs and their families would

live in abundant comfort. There is no felling of trees necessary. They

are all lying prostrate; it is only to cut them up, and the hauling is

only one-quarter to one-half mile to the landing; yet day after day the

hands are loafing about the roads, with guns on their shoulders and hide

when they see me coming. If I come up on one unexpectedly he is very

polite and has some tale of fever all night or a sprained finger or a

headache to explain his not working at the wood.

March 16.

Rode out into the woods on horseback with surveyor to get the lines of

my land marked distinctly, as all the large timber is being stolen from

it by negroes who own lands adjoining. It is terrible to see the trees

all lying on the ground lapped and interlaced so that it is hard to get

through on horseback.

March 18.

Went out to see the wood which has been measured and is ready to send

off.

March 21.

Gog and Gabe have the _79_ flat loaded and have sent Elihu with them in

charge of flat; they must leave on this afternoon's ebb-tide. I first

told Cubby to go with the flat, and he made objections and I got very

angry and told him instead to take _Sarah_ up the creek to the landing

to be loaded to-morrow.

March 22.

This morning a huge lighter arrived, sent by Mr. L. for me to load with

wood, but it could not get under the bridge until low water. Had Scipio

paddle me up the creek to the landing to see the flat being loaded.

Cubby and Sam were loading and they will get off on this evening's tide.

The creek is very wild looking; great trees on each side cast a dense

shadow everywhere. Hearing a curious noise of floundering I saw a large

alligator crawling through the mud on the edge. He had gone quite a

distance from the water in his effort to get the sun, and I had a fine

view of him before he plunged in again. They make for the water as soon

as they hear a boat approaching. I saw him again as I came back, only

for one second, but I saw a number of terrapin sunning themselves on

logs. They stretch their long necks and peer with their beady black eyes

until the boat gets quite close to them and then drop into the water

like a stone with a great splash.

About a month ago I got a note from Mr. L. asking me to allow four negro

men to cut 100 cords of wood on my land and he would be responsible for

the money, $25. I sent word that I would undertake to have the wood cut

for him myself with pleasure, but would not sell it for 25 cents per

cord at the stump. I heard afterward that a neighbor had sold them the

right to cut on their land, and when I went to the landing to-day I saw

about fifty cords of the wood they had cut piled there, and it was the

most splendid fat lightwood I ever saw, from trees that had been growing

on that land sixty or seventy years. And the owner gets 25 cents a cord,

while the wood brings $2 anywhere.

March 23.

Late this afternoon I went up the creek to see the flat that Cubby is

loading with wood. The creek seemed darker and more mysterious than

ever, as the clouds were lowering and there were mutterings of thunder.

The air was perfectly delightful, fresh from the sea.

I enjoyed the expedition immensely until the storm burst, and then

Gabriel was unable to manage the boat at all, the wind was so high. I

had to get him to retreat to a cove and put me out, and I walked home in

a pouring rain, thunder, lightning fierce, and wind so high that it was

impossible to hold an umbrella. I am very thankful the loaded flat is

up the creek and not out on the river. To-day my new venture arrived—an

incubator. I do not see why we could not operate poultry farms with

success here, and will give it a trial at any rate.

April 3.

Letter from Mr. L. says the wood sent in three flats only measures

up thirty-three cords, when I paid the hands for cutting and hauling

forty cords. Fortunately I reserved some money from each one until the

wood should be delivered; but another time I will not take any one's

measurement but Mr. L.'s, for after it is measured each man carries home

five or six logs every evening in his ox cart, and naturally the wood

falls short when delivered. I had to do an immense deal of rule of three

calculating to find out just how to divide the shortage among them,

but succeeded to every one's satisfaction. Live and learn—I will not

get caught so again. I spent the morning working in the negro burying

ground. Storms have thrown down trees in every direction, and though all

the descendants of the 600 who belonged to my father wish to be buried

here, not one is willing to do a stroke of work beyond digging the grave

he is interested in.

I have told the heads of families that if they will each give 25 cents,

which will make enough to pay for a good wire, I will furnish posts and

have the fence put up. They seem much pleased at the idea, but I fear

it will end there.

I am glad the two marble monuments put up by my father in memory of

faithful servants before I was born have thus far escaped injury and

still tell their message of love and fidelity in master and servant.

The wording is odd, but I think it is a beautiful voice from the past,

that past which has been painted in such black colors. Here is the first

inscription:——

In Memory of

Joe of Warhees,

Who with fidelity served

My Grandfather

Wm Allston Sen'r

My Father

Benj Allston and Me

Grateful

Whose Confidence and

Respect He had

1840

This was certainly not the gratitude which La Rochefoucauld dubbed "a

keen sense of favors to come." The other reads:—

In Memory

of

My Servant Thomas,

Carpenter.

Honest and True

He died as for 40 years

He had lived

My Faithful Friend

1850

It is remarkable that my father did not put his name, R. F. W. Allston,

to show who had so honored and remembered his faithful slaves; in

another generation no one will know. He was Governor of South Carolina

in 1857-1858.

Good little Estelle died yesterday and is to be buried this afternoon,

and it was looking to her funeral that I walked through the beautiful

spot to-day, and finding so many fallen trees I called Frank to come

with his axe and clear it out a little. I can ill afford to pay for the

day's work, but cannot bear to have it look so wild and unkept.

April 4.

A perfect day. Last night was so cold that the watermelons, which were

up and growing nicely in the little boxes ready to be set out, were

nipped.

Chloe returned last evening from Estelle's funeral in a state of

exaltation. The preacher had described her death, and it was glorious.

He repeated the words she had said: "Yes, I'm goin', don't fret. I'm

all paid up fur ebryt'ing. I got um here, right by me, a bag o' pure

gold on one side o' me—en Jesus Christ on de oder—en now I'm gwine to

de weddin' supper."

Then she asked him to read a certain chapter and at the end of each

verse she said: "Dat's it, tenk yu, sah," and when the reading was ended

she went to sleep.

Estelle had been our maid for five years and only left us to be

married—a good match according to their ideas. She had a new baby every

year and worked very hard. She grew blacker and thinner, until early

this spring she took to bed. Though scarcely thirty I think, she leaves

five living children and three lie in the graveyard beside her.

I never could get her to do anything in the house after her marriage,

though it would have been much easier for her to take the lighter

housework and with the money hire some one to do the heavier field work.

But that is not the proper thing among the darkies of to-day.

A woman may work herself to death in her husband's field, wash, cook,

scour, mend, patch, keep house, and receive gratefully any small sums

her husband may give her, always answering "Sir" when he speaks to

her, above all increase the population yearly—all this is her duty,

but it is improper for her to take any service like housework. And so

all Estelle's little accomplishments and skill were wasted, except the

sewing which I had taught her and that showed in the neat, trim looking

clothes of her little army of children. I think she has heard the "Well

done, good and faithful servant, ... faithful over a few things."

To-day two friends of mine were to drive fourteen miles to spend the

morning with me. As Dab is strangely agitated and upset by any addition

to my solitary meals, I helped him prepare the lunch table before they

arrived.

It looked very pretty and dainty, but I saw marks of fingers on my

precious hundred and fifty-year-old urn-shaped silver sugar dish, so I

told Dab to dip it in hot water and rub it dry with a cotton flannel

cloth to remove the marks of his fingers. He was gone in the pantry

longer than seemed to me necessary, so I followed him there. To my

dismay the sugar dish which he held in his hand looked as though he had

greased it thoroughly.

"Oh, Dab!" I cried. "What have you done?"

He looked at me, his face beaming with pride in his work, and answered:—

"I jus' shinin' um up wid de knife-brick!"

Words failed me as I took the precious thing in my hands, but when I

had recovered a little I said: "Dab, twenty dollars could not undo the

work of those five minutes—no, not fifty dollars!"

[Illustration: "Jus' shinin' um up wid de knife-brick."]

I dipped it into the pan of scalding water and wiped it dry, but alas!

no change. Actually the beautiful engraving of little garlands of roses

looped around the top was almost effaced, so vigorously had Dab employed

those few moments.

Alas! alas! zeal without knowledge is a terrible thing. Poor Dab cannot

possibly do just what he is told; he has to plan some original course

for himself.

I went to meet my friend unduly agitated and upset by the circumstance,

but was careful not to speak of it. I can bear things so much better

if I do not mention them to any one until the pang is all gone. That is

why this little diary is so much to me. I can explode into it, and then

shut my teeth and bear things.

Unpacked the incubator to-day with Bonaparte's help and began to study

its mysteries. We had a time getting things right, for he has never

seen or dreamed of an incubator, and disapproves entirely of the effort

to take away the occupation of the hen and defeat nature, so that his

manner was disapproving, not to say forbidding. My good Chloe, too,

feels that for some unknown reason the Great Father has given me over to

the temptation of the Evil One, and walks past the "'cubator," as she

calls it, with head high and firm tread; her manner is what the "nigs"

call "stiff"—that means distinctly rebellious and unconvinced. I had

only seen an incubator myself for five minutes under the rapid flow of

words from the young man exhibiting it, words of fervid praise and faith

which left me somewhat vague and confused as to details, for it was just

in a shop and not working.

I calculated when I bought it that I would have time to try my 'prentice

hand with fowl eggs, which take only three weeks to hatch, and then fill

it with turkey eggs, which take four weeks, and get them out before

I have to leave home on May 8; but unfortunately the steamboat was

detained by a storm and so the incubator was delayed a whole week, which

threw out all my plans, and I will have to give up the turkey eggs. The

little book, which is wonderfully explicit and satisfactory, says one

should study out the management of the heat thoroughly before putting

in the eggs, and that will make some delay.

April 6.

I have sat on a low stool in front of the incubator day and night since

it was unpacked and installed in the drawing-room. I lighted the lamp

at once, and then watched the thermometer, which necessitates a bright

light and a very low seat. I thought it was going to be very simple,

and on the second day I thought I had it steady at 102½ degrees, and

went off into the field to see after some ploughing. When I came back I

rushed in to see if it was holding its own and found the mercury at 110

degrees—one little step more and it would have broken the thermometer.

After that I just stayed there. The thermostat is a wonderfully delicate

piece of mechanism and I have no one to consult.

April 7.

At last I have got the thermometer to remain steadily at 102½ for ten

hours, so to-night at 6 o'clock I put in the 120 eggs.

April 10.

Tested eggs to-day. Only six infertile. The thermostat is working

beautifully and the mercury does not vary a half degree during the

twenty-four hours. I am very careful to follow absolutely every

direction and let no one touch it but myself, for I wish to give it a

fair trial. All my friends in the county are confiding to each other

their anxiety over my venture. "Such a pity dear Patience should have

wasted her money on such a folly. A huge sum, $25, for those two

machines. It is distressing." Many years ago, when incubators were

first invented, a progressive neighbor invested in one, and the lamps

exploded and a serious fire resulted, so that it is only natural that

incubators are much looked down on in this community. No doubt there

have been great improvements, and I must think mine the most perfect of

all. Still, I feel great anxiety as to the results, for I will have not

only the great disappointment and loss should it fail but also the "I

told you so" of the whole country side.

April 11.

Began to mix the inoculating stuff for the alfalfa, boiling rain-water

for the purpose. Elihu has ploughed with the heavy plough and Ball and

Paul in the alfalfa field. Gibbie comes behind in the same furrow with

Jack and Sambo and a bull tongue plough. They have gone very deep and

the land should be in good fix after it. Made Willing try the Cahoon

seeder to see if it worked according to directions on card.

April 12.

Elihu and Gibbie harrowing alfalfa field. I had a large tub on the

piazza and put in the second ingredient for the wonder bath. I bought a

corn planter this spring, not because I plant enough corn to really need

it, but because the crooked planting of the women worries me so. To-day

we were to plant the first acre of corn for this season. I had Willing

use the planter drawn by Mollie. It worked very well, but he could not

go straight and the rows look like snake tracks, much worse than the

women's planting, and I had much better have saved my $10. Bonaparte is

triumphant and I am in the slough of despond.

April 13.

Planted corn again. Had Elihu to run corn planter and had Willing

to take his place harrowing in alfalfa field. The rows are a little

straighter, but still hopelessly meandering. That $10 is simply thrown

away.

April 14.

What a time I have had to-day. I started out to plant four acres of

alfalfa and I feel just as though I had drawn the plough and the harrow

as well as the three darkies. The land has been double ploughed, then

harrowed with a home-made tooth harrow, and then with the acme several

times. The land was heavily covered with stable manure before the

ploughing. I have mixed the wonder bath most accurately and now the

culmination of all, the planting, was to take place. I bought a Cahoon

broadcast seeder, and have tried to make Willing (the boy I have in

Jim's place, but oh, what a misfit!) understand the directions. I called

upon old Bonaparte this morning to measure the seed out into separate

sacks, so that we would have no confusion in the field, but, oh, dear,

what a dream that was! It seemed to Bonaparte such feminine folly that I

should insist on stakes every ten feet at the head and end of the field

so that Willing would have something to guide his wandering steps. We

have had high words on the subject, he maintaining that it was a waste

of labor and stakes to mark anything but the half acre. As Willing has

not a straight eye and walks a good deal as though he were tipsy, even

with the guiding stakes, I think it will be in the nature of a miracle

if this field is covered with alfalfa. I have not been out here for

two or three days, as I was planting corn, but I had two men and two

teams at work all the time and a woman to clear away roots, etc., and

positively I do not see what they have done. The field is as rough as

possible, it seems to me, though the negroes think me most unreasonable

and Elihu says: "My Lor', Miss, wha' yo' want mo'? Dis fiel' look too

bu-ti-ful, 'e stan' same lik' a gya'ding!"

The first difficulty is to get the stakes set straight, a tall and then

a short, so that Willing will know that when he leaves a short stake

he must reach a short one at the end of the field; but I had a perfect

battle to get Bonaparte to set the stakes in that way. The next trouble

was to get rid of the alfalfa—I allowed ten quarts to the acre, and it

will not go in. I have opened the small door of the conceited Cahoon

creature just one-half inch as the card says, and made Willing walk

every ten feet instead of every twenty, as it directs, and yet the peck

of seed holds out and is left over.

I understand some of men's temptations in the way of speech now as I

never did before.

Just here I am in trouble over the whereabouts of a huge caterpillar of

varied and gorgeous colors which I saw a moment ago very near me. I did

not like to shorten its little span of life, so I took it on a big leaf

to quite a distance from where I was sitting and turned it on its back

and made a little pen around it. Now it has disappeared and it may be

anywhere. I must move to another tree, though I have an ideal seat on

the root of this one, a splendid live oak with spreading branches.

[Illustration: Aphrodite spread a quilt and deposited the party upon it.]

Finding the ground still so rough I sent Elihu to "the street" to get a

woman with a hoe to go over the ground and remove impediments. I said:

"Get any one you can at once," thinking he would bring Snippy his wife,

or Susan his daughter; but in a short time I saw a procession arriving.

Aphrodite, with a basket on her head, a baby in one arm and a child of

eighteen months dragging by the other hand, while one of three years

toddled behind. The procession moved to a clump of trees in the middle

of the field; there Aphrodite made a halt, took from her basket a quilt,

and spreading it on the ground deposited the party upon it. I do wish

I had my kodak; but I am so stupid about the films; I cannot put them

in myself, and I am so afraid of spending an unnecessary cent, that for

months my kodak is no use to me, and it would be such a delight if I

could only once learn its intricacies.

This group has saved my reason to-day, I think, for the little things

are so funny, solemnly staring around, a bucket of rice and meat made

into a strange mess in the midst. I sent for a basket of roast sweet

potatoes, and gave one to each, but I disturbed the peace of the

pastoral, for I insisted that the potato should be peeled for the baby,

whereupon Isaiah set up a terrible yell and Aphrodite said: "Him lub de

skin." I insisted, however, that the skin should be removed, for only

a month ago Isaiah was at death's door with convulsions. The baby has

on a little red frock and a little red cap with frills, tied tightly

on her little coal black head, and the sun is broiling hot. Her name is

Florella Elizabeth Angelina.

But back to the precious alfalfa, which has cost me so much worry as

well as money All that I can get put into the land is six quarts to

the acre. Here I pause with pleasure as another procession approaches.

Oh, for my kodak again. I heard a noise, and on looking up I see the

Imp puffed up with pride rolling the wheelbarrow, which seems to have a

large and varied load. Behind comes my little maid Gerty with a basket.

With a great swing Imp rolls the wheelbarrow alongside of me; and they

proceed to unload. First a little green painted table, which has a

history that perhaps some day I will have time to tell; then Gerty takes

from her basket table-cloth and table napkins of snowy damask and all

the implements and accompaniments of a modern lunch. Imp takes out a

demijohn of artesian water, the cut glass salt cellar, pepper cruet, and

then these are put in position and in the midst a little dish of butter,

churned since I left the house this morning; and what a nice dinner! A

fresh trout with a roe, brought me an hour ago as a present from Casa

Bianca by Nat, broiled to a turn—a delicious morsel, and after that an

abundant dish of asparagus, and besides this a large dish of fried bacon

and one of rice.

"Oh, Gerty," I said. "Chloe knew I did not want all this to eat."

"Yes, ma'am," she answered. "An' Chloe say to tell you say we got plenty

home for dinner en she know yu'd like to give some 'way." That made me

happy, for Chloe to understand me so thoroughly, to send me a delicious

dainty meal for myself, and then besides a substantial portion for me to

give away. That is what an old time, before the war darky is, one whose

devotion makes them enter into one's tastes and feelings so thoroughly.

When I left the house this morning I certainly expected to be back to

dinner, but finding how absolutely necessary my presence in the field

was I just stayed there, and at three Chloe sent this nice meal. When

the procession arrived I exclaimed, "How delightful! Whose idea was the

wheelbarrow?" The Imp answered promptly: "De me, ma'am," at which I made

him my compliments. It is such a pleasure to be able to commend the poor

little Imp, for he has an immense ingenuity in mischief and earns much

reproof.

I am quite ashamed of the frame of mind in which I began this, but I

will not tear it up. What is written is written. After this episode

everything looks so different, and now at 4:30 the four acres are

planted and 22-year-old Mollie is drawing a bush over to cover the seed

with such rapidity that she keeps Elihu at a run, and even to my eye

the field looks fairly respectable, and the darkies think it unspeakably

fine. I am making Willing travel over between the tracks where he went

before, and so have disposed of the necessary quantity of seed to within

a peck. Now I can look up and beyond the gray earth and glory in the

beauty of God's world. Half of the field was planted in oats in the

winter and it is now splendid, an expanse of intense vivid color. The

field, about twenty acres, is a slight elevation surrounded on three

sides by a swamp, in which the variety of young green is wonderful.

The cypress with its feathery fringe of pale grass green, the water

oak with its tender yellow green, the hickory with its true pure green,

and the maple with its gamut of pink up and down the scale—pale salmon,

rose pink, then a brick-dusty pink, and here at last it rises into rich

crimson. Here and there the poplar, with its flowerlike leaves, the

black gum with its black tracery of downward turning branches, all edged

with tender gray green.

It is too beautiful for words, and behind all, accenting and bringing

out the light airy beauty, is the dark blue green of the solemn pine

forest. I wish I had brought my crayons and block; I might have had a

faint echo of one little corner to send to some poor shut-in who cannot

get it first hand in its exquisite reality. And this, too, is but a

prelude; in a few days the ideal tenderness will be replaced by a more

material and lasting beauty, but not so heart reaching. It certainly

seems a pity that one should have to think of and strive after filthy

lucre in the midst of all this beauty; but I have reached a point where

if I do not struggle and wrestle with the earth, therefrom to draw the

said dross, I will have to give up all this life with Nature and find

a small room in some city to eke out my days.

It is not a cheap thing to live in this country. One must have horses,

one must have servants—but once given a moderate income to cover these

things and there is no spot on earth where one can have so much for

so little. Wild ducks abound all winter, also partridges, snipe, and

woodcock; rabbits and squirrels run over everything. Our streams are

filled with bream, Virginia perch and trout. If any one wants better

living than these afford, he can have wild turkey and venison for the

shooting, as the woods abound in these, and he can have shad daily

during two months if he goes to the expense of a small shad net and a

man to use it. It is a splendid country for poultry. Turkeys, ducks,

and chickens are easily raised, and I believe it could be made to pay

handsomely.

My first question to Gerty when she appeared to-day was, "How high is

the incubator?" She answered promptly 101, by which I know it is not

above 103, and am thankful. I fear the eggs are all cooked, for when I

got in from the corn-field Thursday the mercury stood 106½. I had left

Gerty to watch and to open the door if it went above 102½. She reads and

writes and knows the figures quite well, but does not seem to understand

the thermometer.

April 20.

I had told Aphrodite that she must pull up all the grass roots,

brambles, etc., in the alfalfa field; as it was new ground the harrow

had not got them all out. She came to me to-day and said:—

"Miss, I kyan't wuk een dat fiel' no mo'; de ting cum up too purty, en

ef I tromple um I'll kill um."

"Do you mean the alfalfa has come up?"

"Yes, ma'am, de whol' fiel' kiver wid um."

I just flew to the field on my bicycle, and truly there was the

whole field covered with tiny dark gray green leaves! I was perfectly

delighted, for I had not supposed it would come so quickly and had no

idea the stand could be so thick after all my tribulations.

Just before lunch S. came, bringing some friends with her—they wished

to see how I turned the eggs in the incubator, and so I took the tray

out to show them, and as I was putting it down on the table I heard a

very soft chirp, which startled me so that I nearly dropped the whole

thing.

Somehow I had not realized that the time was so near for the climax, but

to-night as I was going to bed I went for a last look, and there was one

little chick, white and fluffy and very lively. I wonder if that is to

be the only one.

April 28.

The whole incubator seems to have turned into chickens. I never saw

anything like it but a swarm of bees. As soon as I got up this morning

I rushed down to the incubator, and there they were!

I called Chloe at once, and she stood in front of the glass door and

gazed with wondering eyes, then she dropped a profound courtesy, and,

raising her eyes and hands to heaven, she said, "T'ank de Laud," and

this was repeated three times with intense fervor and reverence. Then

she seized my hand and shook it violently.

Only then did I understand how much self-control Chloe had used not to

show me more plainly her utter doubt and scorn of the 'cubator. I knew

she did not approve, but had no idea that she felt certain we would

never see a chicken from it. Her delight is unbounded.

The book of instructions says you must not open the door at all after

the eggs begin to pip, but I had to open it very quickly and take out

the egg-shells which were so much in the way of the chicks. It is too

bad that they sent the brooder without any lamp, and so I cannot take

the chicks out as I should do when they are twelve hours old.

The incubator must be kept at from 105 degrees, and the newly hatched

chicks only 101 degrees, or at most 102, and so I am afraid of roasting

the chicks or chilling the eggs.

April 29.

I am in a great quandary about the chickens, and I have to go to Gregory

to meet a cousin at the train, for I cannot trust Willing to drive

across the ferry and go to the station alone; he is too poor a driver,

and so I must go myself. A great many eggs are pipped and the chicks

will be sacrificed if I leave them so crowded and so hot.

After thinking it over I made up my mind, took a basket, opened the

door of the incubator, took out thirty eggs which had not hatched, and

going to the river threw them in. I stood on the little wooden landing

and watched, and to my horror the eggs swam!

They would not go with the tide but made a circle and returned to the

shore, and I felt like a murderer, but I could not get them back, so

I sadly returned to the house and reduced the heat in the incubator to

102 and fed the chicks some bread crumbs. Then I got into the wagon and

started for Gregory.

It was dark when we got to the ferry and I did not reach the Winyah Inn

until 10 o'clock.

April 30.

When Willing drove to the inn for me this morning I saw a large red

object protruding from his pocket, and as we drove to the station I

asked him what it was. He appeared very much confused and would not

answer, so I told him to take the thing out, as it looked very badly.

Finally with much difficulty I made him take it out before we reached

the station, and it was a quart bottle of dispensary whiskey! I was very

angry and told him to hand it to me, which he at first refused to do,

but in the end he did, and I put it in my valise.

I told him I was greatly mortified and disappointed that this first

time I had trusted him to drive me to town he should do such a thing.

He protested and declared that it was for his grandfather. I was truly

thankful I had seen it and disposed of it before M. arrived, for she

had never been to this part of the world before and would have felt

terrified to see the coachman so provided.

When we got home Willing's mother came and repeated the tale about the

whiskey having been got for her father, and I gave her the bottle. I

know this little tale is pure fiction, for her father never drinks, is

a model old man, and I happen to know a piece of inside history about

Willing, which he confided to Gerty, and she passed it on to Chloe, who

in turn confided it to me, when warning me that my faith in Willing and

his meek ways might be misplaced.

He told Gerty, who is his brother's fiancée, that he was "coa'tin'," but

that when he went to see the object of his affection he couldn't say a

word, but sat dumb before her, unless he drank a pint of dispensary on

the way to her house. Then he was all right and could talk a-plenty. I

called for him this evening and gave him a serious talk.

[Illustration: "Then he could talk a-plenty."]

I reminded him that when he was about five years old his father had gone

to Gregory to pay his tax, having his pocket full of money from the sale

of his crop. His poor mother walked the road all night with the baby

in her arms hoping for his return. He was an excellent man, faithful to

all his duties, a splendid worker, but he could not resist "fire water."

When I heard in the morning that he had not returned, and the other men

who went with him had, I had Elihu get the pony carriage and drive down

the road until he found him and bring him home, as the men said he had

dropped asleep on the road and they could not rouse him, so they came

on and left him. It was a bitter night, one of the three or four freezes

we have during the winter, and I knew it would go hard with him.

Elihu found him eight miles away, got help and put him in the pony

carriage, for Emanuel was a tall, heavy man, and drove rapidly home; but

life was extinct when he reached the poor wife. I had sent beef tea and

stimulant to be given him, but though Elihu found him alive, he could

not force anything down; he seemed unable to swallow.

Lisbeth nearly went crazy; she had seven children to support by her

own labors. As time passed she quieted down and having her house and

firewood and two acres of land free of all rent and owning a fine

pair of oxen and a cow, she got on very comfortably and brought up her

children respectably.

When her only daughter, Aphrodite, married and her two oldest sons went

to "town" to work and were making a dollar a day, she felt as though

her troubles were over. But the same Devil's chain gripped and held her

eldest son Zebedee.

He was a splendid boatman and was as much at home in the water as

a duck. He owned a canoe and made an easy living, at the same time

satisfying his love of sport by taking strangers out ducking. Many

Northern people come to Gregory every winter for that sport.

Last January and February we had several bitter spells of weather with

a prolonged freeze and snow. During one of these, when ducks were

especially plentiful, Zeb took a stranger out. Late that afternoon

they met another sportsman, paddled by a darky, and the parties spoke

and commented on the unusual cold; and Zeb produced his bottle of

dispensary, offering it to the other paddler, while his sportsman also

produced a flask and urged it upon the second sportsman, who being near

his home and its bright fire declined it and suggested to Sportsman No.

1 that he should land and not go on shooting, it was so cold.

No. 1, however, said he was all right, and pointing to his overcoat on

the seat said he had not even put that on yet. They parted and Zeb and

Sportsman No. 1 were never seen again alive.

They did not return to Gregory that night, nor the next. Then search

was made, and the sportsman was found drowned and Zeb was found frozen

holding on to some puncheons on the edge of an old canal. Near by was

the boat, not capsized, and the things in it except the overcoat.

It was surmised by those who knew the circumstances that the sportsman,

not being familiar with a dugout canoe, and not knowing that it is

dangerous to stand up in one, rose to put on his overcoat, lost his

balance and fell overboard, and Zeb plunged in to rescue him, a thing

he could easily have accomplished under ordinary circumstances. But the

spirits he had taken from time to time paralyzed his great strength and

skill in the water, and he not only could not save the man but perished

himself. He succeeded in reaching the puncheons on the edge of the

canal, but was unable to pull himself out, and froze stiff there.

Of course I did not go into all these details to Willing, but made him

see that without that fatal bottle Zeb could have saved himself and the

man, and I tried to make him see that with such a family history the

only hope for him was to swear off absolutely. He seemed much impressed

and thanked me for my "chastisement," as they call any solemn counsel

and admonition, and promised to heed it.

The chicks are very lively and eat bread crumbs and oatmeal very

heartily. I have enclosed a space in the garden of fifty feet in

circumference, with a netted wire fence six feet high, which I will keep

locked, and I hope to defy hawks, foxes, and bipeds as well. Chloe is

perfectly devoted to the chicks and feeds them with enthusiasm every

two hours.

[Illustration: Chloe is devoted to the chicks—feeds them every two

hours.]

I am having much trouble at Casa Bianca. The hands continue to resent

my having given the keys to Nat, and they will not take orders from him.

They will not bind themselves either to rent any certain amount of land,

but sulk steadily.

I knew that the loss of my good foreman Marcus was irremediable, and

when I met him in "town" the other day he told me he was perfectly

wretched; that he missed the country so. Of course it must be so at

first.

Instead of using his really excellent powers of control and

organization, he is hauling wood for a living during the week and

preaching on Sunday; but his wife is perfectly happy in the high social

life. It is the old, old tragedy of Eve and her misguided ambitions—the

world, the flesh, and his satanic majesty. The apple pleased her eye;

she longed to taste it, and then the subtle whisper came: "And it will

make thee wise."

Marcus was making a handsome income; had a position of trust and

responsibility, where all his faculties were in use during the week;

and on Sundays he, no doubt, preached good, simple, useful sermons to

his congregation of laborers, for he came fresh from his struggle with

the earth and its realities. But to his wife came that desire for social

eminence; to wear silk frock and shine, and she tugged and tugged until

he consented to her going.

He remained a year alone on the plantation and then came the inevitable.

He followed, and now all the dignity of his life and character has gone,

and he is struggling to make himself contented with what is supposed to

be a higher station; that is, he takes orders from no one. He will get

accustomed to it after a time, but his powers will shrink away, unused,

and without responsibility his character will crumble.

When he began as my foreman,[2] about fifteen years ago, his writing was

illegible, his figures hopeless. Steadily, patiently, I have corrected

his mistakes, looking over and deciphering his weekly accounts and

copying them down in my book before him so that he could see how they

should look. Now he writes a readable, nice letter and any one could

examine his accounts, and he knows and realizes all this and knows that

his standards have all grown and risen more even than his knowledge.

Meantime I will have to give up altogether planting on wages, and it

looks as though there will be very little land rented. If I had money

of my own I would hire a good overseer and plant 100 acres on wages and

not rent any land to these recalcitrant hands, but it would be madness

to put a mortgage on the place and borrow money at 8 per cent while rice

is selling at 40 cents a bushel.

So I will simply remain passive and let the hands who wish to rent have

the land and seed, but explain that I cannot pay out any money for extra

work. I feel sure that some day rice will rise in price, but every one

seems to think differently, and all the planters are either giving up

entirely or diminishing their acreage very much and turning to upland

crops.

So far I have only forty acres of rice land rented, and I feel very blue

about the future. Then, again, my sheep and cattle at Casa Bianca, which

have been so remunerative to me all these years, are giving me trouble

now.

A friend and neighbor, who has been heretofore a confirmed rice planter,

and never planted an acre of corn, has become disgusted with rice and

enclosed a large body of land which has been thrown out for years,

and is going to plant corn and cotton. This land touches mine, and

my animals have had the run of it. The fence which has been put up is

neither "horse high, bull strong, nor pig tight," and my cattle do not

regard it at all, though it is a very nice looking, _comme il faut_ wire

fence, and I will have to sell my cattle, I fear, and confine the sheep

in a limited pasture.

Ruth, my brag cow, who has given me fifteen fine calves, and Rubin,

my picture bull, just light over that neat fence as though it did not

exist, and the humble sheep go down on their knees and creep under it,

and I lie awake at night and wonder what I am to do between my love for

my creatures and my love for my neighbor.