PEACEVILLE, July 23.
With great difficulty got Chloe off to Gregory to make a visit to her
daughter and see her grandchildren.
I have to push and force Chloe to take the smallest holiday or
relaxation. She cannot drive, so of course I had to send Dab to be her
charioteer.
I told her to broil a nice, 'cubator chicken and put it in the safe,
and I have a very nice loaf of bread which I made yesterday, and with
delicious fresh butter and tomatoes I will be independent of cooks for
two whole days.
In this blessed hamlet of Peaceville, Bible methods prevail to a great
extent, and people do as they would be done by. One finds out what
vegetable one's neighbor is short of, and if you happen to have that
special thing in abundance, you fill a basket, put a dainty doily
over it, and despatch your inevitable small boy to your neighbor
with a pleasant message. Of course she is too delicate to return her
abundant vegetable by the same messenger, but later in the day or the
next morning arrives her small boy with a dainty covered tray, and you
receive a supply of the vegetable you lack with an elegant note.
[Illustration: I got Chloe off to make a visit to her daughter.]
I planted a great many tomatoes, but for want of work during my month's
absence they are very backward, while my dear friend and neighbor, in
the best sense of the word, Miss Penelope, has an abundance of large,
smooth red tomatoes, and daily I receive a little tray of them. I have
only very prosaic vegetables as yet, beans and Irish potatoes, but they
are fine and plentiful, so Dab makes expeditions with the tray, but
without the note which is Peaceville etiquette—a little note asking
particularly the state of your health and mentioning the height of
the mercury, and saying that though doubtless it is sending coals to
Newcastle you venture to offer some of your poor products.
I have a box tacked on the wall by my writing-table into which I drop
all the notes received. I keep them, for they breathe such kindliness,
and seem an echo of the past when people had time to think of others.
By the end of the summer they would nearly fill a half bushel.
To-day I tried to conceal the fact of Chloe's absence. I was invited
out to dinner, but I was so exhausted after the service that I was not
equal to going. Though I had made every effort to get Chloe off before
service, she was not ready when I left, so I told her to lock up the
house and put the key under the pot of heliotrope on the shelf in the
piazza, where I found it, and opening the door, which gave light enough
for me to read by, I lay on the lounge in the dark, shut-up house
till afternoon, when I felt sufficiently rested to get up and take my
frugal, but delicious, repast of cold chicken, bread and butter and raw
tomatoes. Thanks to one of my unknown, far-away friends, I can enjoy
my glass of artesian water. He wrote from Saratoga, suggesting that I
should fill a stone jug with the artesian water, attach a long rope,
and sink it in the well. I have done this, and by this simple expedient
I have delightful, pure drinking water at a temperature of 63 degrees,
without having ice. When the mercury is soaring in the 90s 63 seems
cold, and I do not ask for better. Except for keeping the milk and
butter and having a treat of ice-cream occasionally I really do not miss
ice, now that my little brown jug is swung in the well, and I am very
grateful to my far-away friend.
At dark arrives Miss Penelope bearing a large tray, "Oh, my dear, I
have just heard that Chloe and Dab were seen this morning driving out
of the village and have never been seen to return! And to think of your
being all alone here, and we not knowing! And we had such a delightful
dinner! If only I had known! But I have brought you a bowl of cold okra
soup and a little dish of ice-cream, for we had a celebration to-day,
a birthday dinner."
As soon as I could I told her I had had a dinner fit for a king, and
now this wonderful and delicious treat of ice-cream made it perfect.
I read S. D. Gordon's "Quiet Talks on Power" all day in the darkened
room, and I feel as though I might develop into a dynamo of the first
order.
Peaceville is one of the corners of the world where Sunday is carefully
observed. No one thinks of reading a novel or even a magazine on the day
of rest. The _Spirit of Missions_, the _Churchman_, the _Diocese_, and
sermons are the only mental food digestible on that day. I often find
myself reading "The Spectator" in the _Outlook_, but if a neighbor comes
in I put it hastily out of sight.
[Illustration: I really do not miss ice, now that my little brown jug
is swung in the well.]
Last Sunday my dear Miss Penelope, whose whole life is a sermon of
unselfish devotion and service, never resting, for on Sunday after her
laborious six days in the "store"—which has done such wonderful things,
supporting the family, educating all the younger members and finally
paying off the mortgage on the plantation—she is our sole dependence as
an organist and she never fails us. She understands the "instrument,"
as the organ is always called by Peacevillians.
This special organ is her own, which she has lent the church. The one
which belongs to the church was originally a fine organ and was given
to this little chapel some thirty years ago by a rich young man in New
York, who had it for his own use and who was dying and expressed the
wish that it should go to some place where it would do good. Our little
church was without one and the rector happening to be in New York at
the time, it was given to him. From that day to this it has been in use
constantly, and without repair.
Church mice are proverbially active and they showed great fondness for
the material of the bellows, so that the "instrument" was in a sad and
wheezing condition, making respectable sounds difficult. I, being an
optimist of the first water and having received constant proof of my
having the right view of life, said boldly two years ago, just before
the storm which laid us all low, that I would undertake to pack the
organ and send it away to be repaired. A tuner who came to tune my
beloved piano that spring said that he would repair the organ for $40
if we sent to it him in Carrolton.
I had had experience of the great liberality of the makers of my piano
in the matter of exchange. During a period of forty years more or less I
have had four pianos. Each time that by some good fortune I felt I might
give myself the blessing of a new piano I wrote to the makers and told
them I was sending on the old piano and wished a new one. They always
allowed me a handsome price for the old piano. Reasoning from this
experience that all great makers would act in the same way, I wrote to
Boston to say I was sending the organ for repair or exchange, as seemed
best to them, and asking their best terms, stating that by this parish
there had been bought five melodeons of their make, including two baby
organs.
Immediately came a letter to say the repairs would cost $80 and when
they were made the organ would be worth $250. I wrote back in despair
to say we could not possibly raise $80 for repairs, but would accept
any melodeon they would send in exchange for our organ, which by their
estimate was now worth $170. The answer came promptly—they could not
offer any exchange; the organ was in their way; please answer at once.
So here am I, having sent off the property of the church on my own
responsibility, and it will probably lapse by dint of possession before
we can possibly raise $80 for the repairs. At night when I am very
tired, the organ has a way of rising up before me in accusation and I
feel it is an "instrument" worthy of the Inquisition.
It has been two years now an unwelcome guest in its childhood's Boston
home. Meantime we are using Miss Penelope's organ, which is not fair,
for she can never practise the hymns at home, having no instrument.
I began all this to tell of Miss Penelope's temptation. Last Sunday
afternoon the unwonted sight of an automobile struck the village. Great
excitement among all those who were so fortunate as to be strolling
along the dusty road, among whom was Miss Penelope.
The occupants proved to be friends of hers and when they got out to make
a visit in the village they asked her and two ladies with her to get in
the machine and take a little turn. Now, Miss Penelope had never been
in an auto and she accepted at once. They went two or three blissful
miles and then came the awakening. Every face they met was set in solemn
wonder that she, Miss Penelope, a pillar of the church (if the church
is ever allowed confessedly to rest on feminine foundation), should ride
in an auto on Sunday.
Words failed, but looks were all powerful. That night she said to me:—
"Patience, I am so ashamed of myself; I just yielded to temptation, you
may say, without a struggle. It was so hot and dusty in the roads and
the thought of flying through the air was so delightful that I never
thought of it being Sunday and accepted the invitation at once; and it
was the most heavenly sensation! Mr. A. said the road was clear and he
could exceed the speed limit without danger, and it really was like a
trip to Europe, so elevating and delightful; but as soon as I stepped
down from the car I realized how wicked I had been."
"My dear, I do not agree with you at all," I replied; "there were no
horses being driven for pleasure on their day of rest; there was nothing
but the cogs and wheels of a machine and half a pint of gasolene. You
were perfectly right to go. Don't mind what any one may say. It was a
perfectly innocent recreation and refreshment, which you of all people
are certainly entitled to."
But my efforts were in vain, though she said: "It is a great comfort to
find you do not blame me, but I must blame myself."
July 24.
Good Miss E. spent last night here so that I should have some one near,
and she made me a delicious cup of coffee and a nice little breakfast
in spite of all I could say. Then she went home, and I fed the chickens
and washed up the dishes and did all the housework, drawing buckets and
buckets of water from the well, and I felt so proud and pleased with
myself when I found it was only 9:30 and I had done all the work, for
I had to do Dab's as well as Chloe's.
It is a great thing to know just what the work is, and if you do it
once yourself you know just what the labor is. It is not a third of the
amount of work I had supposed.
After finishing I sat down in the door of the sitting room to get every
breath of air and embroidered and had a day of luxury—no interruptions,
except when one waiter arrived with tomatoes, another with a muskmelon,
and just at noon a specially dainty little tray with a glass of
blackberry shrub and, O joy, a lump of ice in it.
I do not know when I have had such a quiet, peaceful day. As the horse
and vehicle were gone I had no way of going to the plantation, which is
my daily duty, and so felt free to enjoy myself.
July 28.
My poor Chloe is very ill with rheumatism—it is distressing, she suffers
so. Dab is distinguishing himself and so am I.
I rise at five, so as to churn and knead and do my part of Chloe's work.
Dab does the cooking very well and with enthusiasm. I am conscious that
with both of us it is the enthusiasm of new brooms and am looking with
terror to the inevitable slump.
I have never been an early riser, and the thought of the stern
resolution I have made, to get up at five punctually, keeps me waking
up all night long. I strike a match, look at the little clock on the
table at the head of the bed, and think with delight how many hours
there are before the fateful five strikes. I am losing pounds daily in
the process, but make up in pride over my strenuosity.
On the plantation the struggle to get all the peas ploughed in for hay
is most exhausting. Gibbie says he is sick, and I have engaged Loppy to
do it, but he finds fault with the team and the plough.
Sunday, July 30.
A pleasant service and good sermon in our little church. When I got
home to my great joy found C. and John. We got out the little old black
leather-covered trunks which came from the log house, where they were
stored, and looked over some of the papers in them.
Found many old letters from grandmother to papa when he was at West
Point, beautiful letters, urging on him duty, discipline, and diligence.
Oh, what an inestimable blessing to a boy to have such a mother and to
value the letters so that here almost a century later they are found
carefully kept; I suppose all she wrote, for postage was so high then
that letters were not an everyday or a weekly matter.
August 24.
Reading with great pleasure the "Life and Letters of Washington
Allston," and came upon so many bits of wisdom which I would like to
keep, for instance:—
"Confidence is the soul of genius.... A little seasonable vanity is the
best friend we can have."
"It was a saying of Alcibiades, and I believe a very just one, that
'When souls of a certain order did not perform all they wished it was
because they had not courage to attempt all they could.'"
All this written by my great-uncle Washington Allston, August 24,
1801, to the artist Charles Frazer—to-day 109 years ago. We have a very
beautiful miniature of him and it has the face of a wise man and almost
a saint.
PEACEVILLE, September 1.
A beautiful morning, though clouds are still flying. Everything is fresh
and sparkling after the rain.
Had a terrible temptation—a letter yesterday from A. C. begging me
to join her in Columbia to-morrow and make the journey with her to
Highlands, where my sisters and their families are. All summer J. has
been urging me to spend the hot months with her, and sent the check for
my travelling expenses, which I returned, as it seemed to me my duty to
stay here.
Now the thought of that wonderful exhilarating climate and beautiful
scenery with all my dear ones was too much for me. I determined to
go. Drove to Cherokee and gave Bonaparte directions for the conduct
of everything during my absence, specially the curing of my precious
pea-vine hay. Sent word to the ferryman to have the flat on this side
of the river at 3:30 A.M. Had the shafts taken off and pole on the
buckboard, so as to drive the pair, as I wished to take my steamer trunk
with me.
It would be necessary to leave here at 2:10 A.M. to take the 6 A.M.
train, though it is only eighteen miles; but the ferry represents an
unknown quantity. After all was done I felt very light-hearted. To turn
my back on heat and worry, on discouragement and continual effort, was
delightful and I walked down to the barn-yard with light and springy
tread.
On my way the gorgeous sunset struck me and I stopped, spellbound by its
infinite beauty. Oh, the tenderness of the light, fleecy pink clouds;
oh, the passionate red of the darker ones; oh, the golden glow of the
horizon! Could anything hold more intense beauty and delight? Could
one look at that and shrink from toil and moil and sweat in the path
of duty? Was I a coward? Was I a shirk? Had I not chosen my own path
and was I too much of a weakling to walk in it? Was I willing to leave
the burden and heat of the day for two old darkies to struggle through
alone?
I stood there filling my soul with beauty and strength until the last
beam faded, then went to old Bonaparte and countermanded all my orders.
It was all easily done except to notify the ferryman that he need not
be ready for me, and I will send him a little present to make up for
that. I have but one distress. I wrote to my sister by to-day's mail to
say if it was possible to do it I would go, and I hate to think of her
disappointment.
I drove back to the pineland in my little old rattling buckboard, it
being too late to have the pole taken off of the other one, and a great
peace filled me. Chloe was overjoyed at my change of plan, though she
had encouraged my going in every way and had my trunk all packed. As for
Goliah, he fairly glittered with joy, which condition was contributed
to by the habit he has taken up recently of greasing his broad little
black face very thoroughly with the vaseline I provide for keeping the
harness soft. He seems to find infinite comfort from rubbing a quantity
on his hands and then massaging his face very hard with both hands. It
always amuses me, it is such an odd thing for a child to do.
September 4.
A glorious autumn day, really cold. I was very busy all morning bottling
some blackberry wine made in 1903. Somehow there was great haste all
day. At the plantation got very unhappy over the fear of cockspurs in
the hay. It is impossible to make the negroes understand the importance
of destroying them. Last year the horses had none of the best hay. It
was all kept for the cows because there were a few cockspurs in it.
The scuppernong grapes are ripening very fast and are delicious.
September 6.
I certainly have been rewarded for not going to the mountains, for the
mountain coolness has come to me—the weather has been perfect since the
day after my decision. This morning Nat came from Casa Bianca looking
more cheerful than usual. He told me he had nearly sold my cow Onyx.
I received this rather coldly with the commonplace as to a miss being
equal to a mile in such cases. He said Mr. E. had come up with his
brother to look at the cow and asked him the price and he answered
$27.50, and that the brother took out the money and counted it out into
his hands when Mr. E. came up and said:—
"I can make a better bargain with Mrs. Pennington than that. I'll write
to her. Take back your money."
"Nat said: 'De money luk very sweet een my han's, but I gie um back to
de gen'leman. Yu get letter frum em yet?'"
"No," I said, "but I can't imagine what made you say $27.50 for that
cow with her splendid calf. I never said less than $30. I am glad that
trade is off."
This was true and yet not true. I never would have sold Onyx for less
than $30 myself, but if Nat had brought the smaller sum at this moment
I would not have reproved him, as the constant call of the laborers to
be paid presses on me daily.
After much wandering talk Nat took from his pocket a roll of money and
counted it out to me, saying: "Ef I ain't succeed to sell de cow, I dun
sell John Smit fu t'irty dolla'!" and there it was.
I was too thankful for words and yet sorry to part with John Smith, a
handsome, long-legged Brahmin steer, who travels like a horse. However,
as he is not yet three years old it is a fine sale and I praised Nat
accordingly and gave him a dollar. Every time I think I am going to have
a fine young pair of oxen I find myself obliged to part with them and
be content with my faithful old ones, for there is always good sale for
the steers even when nothing else sells.
At Cherokee I saw no sign of Gibbie, but was pleased to see the three
milch cows tethered in the lush grass of the corn-field. I have long
tried to get Gibbie to do this, in vain; it is not the habit in this
country, and Gibbie is sure would have fatal results. What made him come
to it I do not know, but I was delighted to see them knee deep in grass,
evidently satisfied, for they were not eating, only chewing their cud
meditatively.
I passed on to the house and after a while went down to the garden to
see about the turnips. Just as I was about to cross the little foot
bridge which leads from the barn-yard I saw basking on the plank a
terrible looking moccasin. I turned away to get a stick long enough and
strong enough to give me courage to attack him. When I came back armed
the snake had disappeared, and I was about to cross when some instinct
warned me to look well, and there just under the bridge in the flowers
and grass that grew so luxuriantly as almost to touch it, I saw the
beady eyes in the erect asp-like head fixed on me.
I summoned all my nerve and after a severe struggle killed the deadly
thing. Even after I threw it some distance away with my strong staff it
was hard to make myself cross the narrow bridge. I finally did get into
the garden and found the turnips in great need of work.
On my way back I looked into the field where the cows were, and there
was Moselle, my thoroughbred Guernsey, whom I had seen all right a
half hour before, prostrate on the ground, her head under her! I flew
through the gate and to her, to find that the horns were fastened in
the ground, her forelegs bent over her head. The rope round her hind leg
had evidently caught when she went to lie down or get up, I don't know
which.
I called aloud for Gibbie, Bonaparte, Goliah, but no one came. Moselle's
breathing was like a very loud snore. I tugged at her forefoot to
lift it off from her head, putting all my strength, but in vain; when
exhausted by the great effort, I called again and again, then getting
no answer returned to the tugging.
At last I succeeded by a mighty effort, then another mighty effort, and
I got her horns out of the earth and put her head in a natural position,
when she lay as if dead. The terrible sound in her breathing had ceased,
but she plainly said she was dying. I loosed the rope from her foot
and from her head and encouraged her to get up, but she lay with closed
eyes, and I left her, for I know how easily cows give up and die.
I went up to the house, where Goliah was putting Ruth in the buckboard,
for it was sunset. Then Gibbie appeared and I told him Moselle was dying
and reproached him for being away from his post of duty. When I drove
out after all this expenditure of feeling Moselle was quietly eating
as though nothing unusual had befallen her. I felt like Mother Hubbard
after her trip to the undertaker's. Altogether it was a trying afternoon
and I am very tired.
September 7.
Had some important writing to do this morning, but before I could begin
Patty came in to say two "ladies" wanted to see me. I went out to find
Totem's two daughters, who wished to get me to protect their property
for them.
[Illustration: Patty came in.]
They said their father's "stepwife" had advertised the horse and buggy
and cow and calf for sale, all of which things had belonged to their own
mother and the "stepwife" had no right to sell them. I spent the whole
morning talking to them and writing for them to the Probate Judge and
others.
Totem was a faithful servant and their mother an excellent woman, and I
shall do all in my power to have their property protected. At the same
time I tried to make them understand that the "stepwife," having been
legally married to their father, however short a time before his death,
had a right to a proportion of his property.
As soon as they were gone I went to the plantation, where terrible havoc
has been made in the corn by three hogs belonging to negroes who live
miles away in the woods. It is a most difficult thing to get any redress
for this. Bonaparte asked me to walk through the corn-field to estimate
the damage, and really I think one-third of the corn has gone.
I cannot believe it is altogether the work of animals. I think they have
been assisted by humans, for while great quantities of corn stalks are
bent down and you can see where the corn has been eaten on the ground,
in many, many cases the stalks are standing straight up and the ears
are gone. However, I say nothing about that, as it would be useless.
One of the hogs I hired a man with a dog to catch two weeks ago. It
weighs over 200 pounds and the man charged $2 for catching it. I have
fed it in the pen for seventeen days. Now the owner, a very well-to-do
darky who has a pension from the Government and is above work, says he
cannot possibly pay $7, which is the amount I fixed upon, though the
damage is much greater than that, indeed, four times that.
There are still two smaller hogs of about 100 pounds each in the field.
I have a strong wire fence around and I cannot help thinking the hogs
have been let in at the gate. Of course a man would have them shot, but
I cannot do that.
The milk is falling off, and to keep up my butter engagements I will
have to stop sending the pint of milk daily to Eva which I have been
sending for six weeks. She is Gibbie's mother, and when the doctor said
she should have fresh milk I gladly gave it, but she is up and about
now, and if Gibbie will not take the trouble to take the milk from the
cows because he is in such haste to go out hunting, his mother will have
to suffer along with me.
Bonaparte and Kilpatrick are working on the flat which needed
overhauling and repair. It is a heavy expense, but as the rice is doing
well there must be a dry, tight flat to bring it in.
September 10.
Very hot again. This morning I was working at a serenade of
Rachmaninoff's when I fainted. Good Chloe got me on the lounge and dosed
me with ammonia and I got over it, but could neither write nor read
without a return of the terrible feeling. So I had the room darkened
and kept quiet until 4:30 when I had to go to the plantation.
September 13.
Miss Penelope sent me word she was unequal to going to church to-day.
So I had to play the organ as well as sing. Though a little rickety
still, I enjoyed the organ in its rejuvenated condition. It is very
sweet and full. A beautiful sermon. Thanked the good Father for his many
mercies. The Sunday-school children came promptly at five and were most
interesting.
September 14.
Making wine from the scuppernong grapes; ten quarts of grapes made two
and a half gallons of wine. It is a very simple process, and yet the
wine is very nice. It would make most delicious champagne if we had
strong enough bottles to put it in at the right stage, but it bursts
ordinary bottles, so we leave it uncorked until that stage passes.
I make it because I find a portion of wine is a most acceptable present
to the men of the family at Christmas time—only it must not be too
sweet. The scuppernong grape grows so rapidly and vigorously in this
soil and climate that it would be worth while to plant it largely for
transportation to places where wine is made. In this State it is under
the ban, but there is no law to prevent sending out the grapes.
Every negro cottage through the long line of villages which fill the
pine woods has at least one scuppernong vine, from which they sell
bushels of grapes, besides eating them for a month. One vine will cover
several hundred feet of space, for they are never trimmed, but grow
laterally on scaffoldings made about five feet and a half from the
ground.
They do not grow in bunches like other grapes, but only four or five
very large grapes together, so that when you go under an arbor of ripe
grapes you see no leaves above you, only a canopy of grapes, the leaves
being all on top, and there is no more delicious experience than a half
hour under a really old grape-vine in early September.
The older the vine the more luscious the grapes, and the perfume is most
exquisite. It is a native of North Carolina, but takes kindly to this
State and requires no spraying or care of any kind beyond breaking away
the dead twigs and branches during the winter season—and mulching with
dead leaves.
September 15.
Had a present of a bushel of grapes from Old Tom's children—such a
pleasant surprise! The grapes from my arbor are so enjoyed by the whole
plantation that I never get more than a peck at a time, so that it is a
great thing to have such a handsome present. Presented the bringer with
a dress for herself and shirt and cravat for the brother. That is what
a present means with us—good will expressed, and a handsome return.
PEACEVILLE, September 16.
This morning had a delightful present of venison. S. M. killed a deer
yesterday.
Sent Chloe, Patty, and Goliah to plantation to pick the last of the
grapes, and I tried to refresh myself by reading "Peter." Yesterday
when I drove down Ruth behaved in the most unaccountable way. I had S.
R. with me and we were driving up the avenue to the barn-yard, which
is called the Red Bank—I do not know why, as it is not a bank nor is it
red, just an avenue bordered by live oak trees with the fields of corn,
peas, potatoes, etc., beyond. The growth is very luxuriant and thick on
each side under the trees.
About halfway from the gate Ruth suddenly shied violently, shivered
and shook, and though the road is quite too narrow to turn she backed
violently right into the ditch, and before I understood what she was
doing she had turned the buckboard around most cleverly and was rapidly
on her way back to the gate with every sign of terror. As soon as I
realized what had happened I drove into the field on one side of the
road, turned and drove back up the avenue toward the barn-yard, the road
she has travelled all summer every day but Sunday without showing the
least fear of anything.
I made Goliah walk ahead until we got near the spot which had so
terrified her. When I saw the fit of terror returning I gave the reins
to S. who fortunately was with me and is a very good whip, and I got
out and led Ruth by with the greatest difficulty. I do not know what to
make of it unless there was some one hidden in the ditch who was very
obnoxious to her.
The only time I ever knew her to shy so violently before was once when
I was driving down to Casa Bianca alone. In a perfectly open, clear
road, with a deep ditch on each side, no bushes or underbrush at all,
she was trotting along briskly when suddenly she made a terrific shy to
the right and bolted. In a few yards I pulled her down, and wondering
greatly at her conduct I looked back to see if there were any stumps
which I had not noticed, and out of the ditch on the left side of the
road rose a most fearful looking head, a white man's, all overgrown
with hair, hatless, dishevelled—no doubt a fugitive from justice who
had wandered the roads a long time, from his aspect.
Needless to say I did not tarry to ask questions, but let Ruth travel
at her very best speed, and that evening returning home I drove as fast
as I could, whip in hand, but had no further trouble with Ruth.
On this occasion surely if there had been any one hidden in the ditch
Don, the setter, would have found him.
Coming home she still seemed nervous. Goliah says "plat eye" and Chloe
says "speret, Miss Pashuns. You know Cherokee is a ha'nt place, dat Red
Bank road speshul, en wen yu cum to de Praise House lane dat dem home.
"T'ree time dem 'tack me dere. One time I bin a cum f'um Nannie weddin'.
I see a man walk right befo' me, en I call to um en say 'Elihu! Dat be
yu? Wait f'r me,' en de man neber answer, en w'en 'e git to de gate 'e
neber open um, 'e jes' pass trou' wi'dout open, en den 'e tu'n 'eself
unto a bull, en rare up befo' me. Den I kno' 'twas plat eye, en I say
to meself 'Trow down yu fader h'art, en tek up yu murrer h'art,' 'en I
dun so. 'Kase yu kno', Miss Pashuns, yu' murrer h'art is always stronger
dan yu fader h'art.
"Oh, yu didn't kno' dat? 'Oman h'art is stronger dan man h'art w'en yu
cum to speret en plat eye. Yes, Rut' see dat same man en I jes' t'enk
de Lawd she ain' cripple yu."
That night she returned to the subject and told many wonderful ghost
stories, all of that same road, and said Gibbie was so afraid of going
along there in the dusk and reminded me that he never would wait to
take my horse when I was out late, and that was the reason. As I still
pooh-poohed her stories she put on quite a superior air and said:—
"Critter kin see mo' dan me, Miss Pashuns, en I kin see mo' dan yu, fer
all yu kno' so mutch mo' en me. W'at I tell yu, 'tain't wha' I hear,
but wha' I see meself."
[Illustration: "Plat eye!"]
There is no doubt something in what Chloe says about creatures, as she
calls animals, seeing more than human beings. There is a spot on the
road about a mile from Casa Bianca where a man was killed by a fall from
his horse, which shied violently, throwing him against a tree. This was
about sixty-five years ago, and though it is now a commonplace looking
spot enough, my horses rarely pass it without shying.
September 18.
Yesterday I gave Gibbie a severe talk because of his total neglect of
his work—the stables not cleaned, no pine straw hauled for bedding, the
calves starved, yet the cows only half milked. I would not mind losing
the milk so much if only the calves got it, but they look miserable,
especially Heart, the little Guernsey I so wish to raise.
He is intoxicated with the rice bird and coot fever and spends every
night out hunting, and of course in the day he is too sleepy to do
anything. He answered almost insolently for the first time, for usually
he has the grace of civility.
September 22.
Went down after early dinner in great haste to peas field prepared to
help pick out cockspurs, but found that Gertie and two other women had
finished. I went over it prepared to find it only one-half done, as
usual, but to my delight found it thoroughly done. They had two large
barrels packed tightly with cockspurs, root and all, the burrs being
still soft; and look over the field as carefully as I could I found
not a single plant. I had the pleasure of praising them warmly. It was
Gertie's doing, I know, as Bonaparte put her in charge.
Chloe returned to the subject of "sperets" to-night and would insist
on going back to all the strange things that have happened in her
experience. There is no doubt that Chloe would develop into a most
successful medium if she was in the way of knowing anything about the
present craze for spirit manifestation.
She called to my remembrance one very strange circumstance that took
place the first year I was alone at Cherokee after my dear mother's
death. It had been the habit of our household to have family prayers,
and when I was left alone I determined to continue the evening prayers
and for that purpose had Chloe come in at 10 o'clock.
It was curious how reluctant she was to have me act as home chaplain.
She evidently did not consider me equal to the situation. However, I
made a point of it and she graciously came.
After prayers were ended she would stand at the door looking very
dignified in her white head handkerchief and white apron and talk over
the events of the day, the condition of the poultry yard and the evil
deeds of the generality of mankind. This little chance to tell her
trials and tribulations was greatly enjoyed by her, and I tried not to
be impatient at the wealth of detail, and impossibility of getting back
to my book, for I knew that alone made her consent to come in to the
little service which meant so much to me as a survival of the past.
One particular evening when she was in full swing I was sitting in one
arm-chair by the fire, the other being empty, and on the rug stretched
off in front of the fire asleep lay a very handsome Skye terrier which
had been recently given to me as a protection, my dear little old black
and tan Zero having died that summer. Suddenly Blue Boy woke, rose,
every hair on end. He growled, he sniffed, he snorted, and then made a
dash at the empty chair, barking furiously.
I tried to pacify him, called him to me, patted and petted him, all in
vain. He got under my chair, but he continued to bark fiercely. Finally
I was annoyed by it and got up and sat in the empty chair. It meant
nothing to me but that Blue Boy had had a bad dream.
I went on talking to Chloe and as Blue Boy quieted down and went back
to sleep on the rug I got up and in my impatience at the prolonged
talk began to walk about the room, I was so anxious to get back to my
interesting book. In a second I heard a growl and Blue Boy was on the
rampage again, more furiously than the first time. He attacked the empty
chair, making a dash to within a foot of it and then running away, only
to renew the attack.
I was quite provoked and was going to slap him when I looked at Chloe.
She was white almost, with a look of terror.
"Miss Pashuns, 'tis Ole Miss' Blue Boy see."
"What nonsense, Chloe! You know that is impossible, and even if it were
possible, why should Blue Boy bark at mamma? You know all the dogs were
devoted to her."
Chloe answered: "Miss Pashuns, you fergit, you git Blue Boy since Ole
Miss' gone; him 'oodn't kno' Ole Miss'."
It ended by my taking the dog up and carrying him out of the house. Up
to this time he had always slept in my room at night as Zero used to do,
but when I was ready to go upstairs that evening and called him he would
not come inside the door. He wagged his tail quietly and licked my hands
but refused to come in, and from that time I never could induce him to
stay in my room either night or day. He would lie on the rug until I was
ready to go upstairs, but then he went to the front door and insisted
on remaining on the piazza for the night.
After putting Blue Boy out I returned to try to reassure Chloe, who was
greatly agitated. I told her that if the Good Father, in whose hands I
felt so safe, should see fit to let those whom I so dearly loved in the
flesh, return in the spirit to watch over me in my lonely life, it would
make me very happy, and that I could not understand it being a cause of
terror to any one.
"But," I said, "I do not feel called upon to decide whether that is
possible as our world is constituted. I only have a firm abiding faith
in the mercy and love of God and in His determination and ability to
keep all those who put their trust in Him and walk in His commandments."
Then I went to the piano and had her sing with me that beautiful old
hymn, "How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord."