PEACEVILLE, July 7.
It has been desperately hot and when I got a cordial invitation from
Mrs. G. to spend a few days with her on Pawleys Island I was overjoyed.
My old summer home was there, and since we had to sell the place ten
years ago I have never been willing to see the beach again, but now I
am just gasping for a breath of the sea and I made my arrangements to
go to-day.
[Illustration: My old summer home at Pawleys Island.]
I had Jerry King ploughing in cow-peas at Cherokee, and he is a fine
boatman, so I told Bonaparte to have my little dugout canoe which I
call the Whiting ready for me at the wharf at 10 o'clock, with Jerry to
row me. When I drove down, what was my dismay to find no Jerry there.
Bonaparte with unmoved dignity told me that Jerry had just been arrested
by the Sheriff while ploughing in the field, for debt, he said.
I was quite distressed. Jerry does not live on my place and so I know
nothing about his financial status. I had to find some one, for Mrs.
G.'s surrey would be waiting for me on the other side. Jim was eager to
row me, but I doubt his being able to hold out for a seven-mile row, not
having used oars for years. I found Aaron was working his cotton in the
far field, so I sent for him.
He was taken unawares and came not knowing what I wanted, and was most
reluctant to go without being dressed for the occasion. However, I
insisted that it was an emergency and he would have to forget the good
clothes he would like to have on, and I would do likewise. Aaron used
to be a very fine oarsman, but he has not rowed very recently and felt
doubtful. Little Goliah was eager to go in the boat, so I took him. He
is 10 and it is time he was learning to manage a boat.
When we got to the mouth of the Waccamaw River it was very rough and
Aaron wanted to turn round, but I would not appear to understand his
desire. I exclaimed:—
"Now, Aaron, you see why I wanted you to row me. I knew there would be
half a gale blowing out here, and I would not have been willing to cross
with any but a first-class boatman."
"Miss, you t'ink we kin mek 'em? Dem wave is putty tampsious! You see
de win' is ded gen de tide, en we bleege to cross right een de teef uf
de win'!"
"Yes, but the tiller ropes are strong, and I can keep her head on the
waves and watch my chance to quarter over. The boat is stanch, and I
promise you I can keep her out of the trough. You know the river well;
tell me the best place to cross, and let us go," for all this time we
were dancing about in the mouth of the creek, where it would have been
easy to turn—when once we got into the rough water we could not—and I
feared that Aaron's caution might prevail.
The river is about a mile wide at that point, and it certainly did look
angry. Poor little Goliah was so frightened at the swirling waves that
I told him to sit down in the bottom of the boat, which he did, and
covered his eyes with his hands so as not to see the raging water. He
just shivered when the spray dashed over him. It was a strenuous half
hour, but we made it, and when we got into the canal mouth on the other
side Aaron laughed aloud with pride and delight; he rested on his oars,
and taking out his bandanna, mopped his face streaming with sweat and
chortled with joy.
"My Lawd! 'Tis a good t'ing ter travel wid a pusson w'at hab a strong
heart. Miss Pashuns, you bring me over dat ribber! I didn't trust fer
cum, but you bring me."
"I know you are glad, Aaron."
"Too glad, E mek me feel too good, I got back me y'uth."
I got out on the wharf, very tremulous in my arms from the effort,
but as happy over it as Aaron. I told him he must wait until sunset to
return, for the wind almost always falls then. I found J. G. waiting
with the surrey and was so very glad I had persisted in coming, for he
said he would have waited until night for me.
Met with a delightfully cordial welcome and a dinner of delicious
sailors' choice, fresh from the sea.
THE-RECTORY-ON-THE-SEA, July 8.
It is too delightful here! Words cannot express how much I enjoy this
beloved sea, the invigorating breeze, and the smell of the ocean! I
did enjoy my night's rest so much with the glorious boom of the waves
breaking on the beach, which I have not heard for so long.
The family are charming, and go on with their various occupations, and
I just sit on the piazza pretending to embroider a shirt-waist, but in
reality just drinking in the beauty and goodness of that "great first
cause, least understood," as Pope expressed it, whose purposes we read
awry, whose mercies we so often mistake for punishments, whose wisdom
we so often doubt, and whose hourly call for our hearts we refuse, and
still he lavishes his beauty and goodness upon us!
Sunday, July 10.
This morning coming from the dear little chapel of All Saints on the
sea-shore, where we had service, I met Mr. L., and had the offer of a
magnificent St. Bernard dog. I certainly am fortunate about dogs. My
only fear is that he and my fine red setter may fight, for they say he
is hard on dogs, though very mild to human beings. He is a beauty and
would be a great possession to me. I feel quite sure he would not fight
MacDuff, my terrier, for he has the gift of winning love from all, man
and beast. Don, the setter, who is jealous of everything else, has never
been jealous of him.
[Illustration: The roof of the house on Pawleys Island—from the
sand-hills.]
In the afternoon I drove with Mr. G. up to the negro mission at Brook
Green, nine miles. It is a pretty, churchly little chapel. He asked
me to play the very nice organ. The vested choir of colored girls had
already put up the hymns "I Need Thee Every Hour," "Crown Him With Many
Crowns," and "Sun of My Soul." They sang very well, showing Mrs. W.'s
careful training, and the service was very pleasant.
Visited the recluse for a few moments—a striking and interesting
figure—then the homeward drive through the thick woods. Altogether it
has been a perfect day.
July 11.
My time is up on this delightful beach and I started home, driven as
far as the river by my kind host and hostess. Found the Whiting with
Aaron and Goliah waiting for me. It was very, very hot. I steered at
first, but could not hold up my umbrella and steer, and as Aaron said
he had taught Goliah on the way home I changed my seat and turned over
the ropes to him. He did beautifully. The river was like glass, a great
contrast to the trip over, but the creek called Squirrel Creek through
which we go is so winding, with such sharp turns, that I did not suppose
Goliah could get us through without striking the shore once, but he did,
and I was much pleased.
After the hour and a half row I looked over the corn, cotton, etc., at
Cherokee and then drove rapidly to Peaceville, I was so hot and tired.
As I got out of the buckboard I saw my precious little dog lying under
a tree very ill.
As I called his name he tried to jump up, but could not stand and fell
over on his side. I was terribly upset. I had a tub brought and poured
bucket after bucket of cool water fresh from the well over him, then
rubbed him dry and gave him three tablespoonfuls of olive oil. Then
before going to bed six hours later I gave him a dose of castor oil in
hot milk. I feel very little hope of his recovery and am very sad.
July 12.
Got up at 5 and went out at once to see after MacDuff. He was not in his
bed nor could I see him anywhere in the yard. I feared he had wandered
off to die—that is the dog's instinct, the call of the wild, I suppose,
to go off into the woods and unseen give up its last breath. I sent
Jim to search the whole enclosure, which is large, and a creek runs at
the northern side. I stood a while silent by the well and then lifted
up my voice and called, "MacDuff, MacDuff!" when around the piazza and
down the front steps clattered the little fellow, frisking and jumping,
apparently perfectly well. I am thankful; I would have missed my little
companion sadly.
This afternoon Goliah came to me looking very solemn and asked to go
home for two days. When I asked why he wanted to go he said his little
brother, Tillman, was dead and he wanted to go to the "settin' up" and
the funeral. Poor little strangely named fellow; he never was well. The
same disease that carried off his mother and brothers gripped him early.
I ought not to let Goliah go, but it would break his heart not to, and
so I let him go. After all, poor little Tillman is safe, and this smart,
good little Goliah, whom I teach and train as well as I can, is already
showing that he will soon break away from my authority and he may grow
up a bad man after all, while poor little Tillman is safe from evil
influences. There are many things worse than death.
PEACEVILLE, July 25.
The field Loppy has ploughed is a sight to make one weep. Great boulders
of earth much bigger than his head lie around as though tossed there by
some giant playing ball, and the earth being dry and caked the harrowing
does not have much effect. Bad as Gibbie is, this is worse. I am sending
him all the nourishing food I can find to get him on his feet again.
No chance of a stand of peas with such work. The only cheering spark
is little Laycock, who every other day with great flourish of trumpets
deposits a tiny little egg in the geranium lined nest.
This evening I had all the children in the village to dance here for an
hour. I told them I would be happy to play for them from 9 to 10 o'clock
every Friday evening—not a party, because there are no refreshments,
only a dancing class. They seemed greatly to enjoy themselves.
There are not more than fifteen all together, and L. came to help me
direct the dancing. I am so fond of young people that it is a pleasure
to me, and they do have a very dull time, especially those who have
come home from school. I meant to make a tennis court in the yard, but I
attempted to have the grass improved. It was moderately smooth before,
but I ordered it very carefully ploughed while I was away and fresh
grass seed planted. Gibbie was the person to do it, and it is now like
the billows of the sea, so that a tennis court is impossible.
The mail brought me to-day a most interesting looking parcel with
forty-two cents postage on it. I opened it slowly and with much
satisfaction. Is there anything more delightful than an unknown
quantity? When I opened the box, about six inches square by two high,
out came a white canvas bucket with stout rope handle, capable of
holding a peck.
I examined it with great interest and wonder as to its purpose. A water
bucket, I concluded, so I called Lizette and had her take it to the
ever flowing well and fill it. She brought it back held at a respectful
distance, for the water dripped out very steadily though not fast. Then
I decided it was for me to pick fruit and vegetables in. I could only
see by the postmark that it came from Maine. I am quite charmed with
its lightness. No basket is half so light to carry.
To-day Chloe is walking about the yard a little, which is a joyful sight
to me. She at last got a chance to tell me her amusing story. One day
while I was away, Gibbie came to her looking most mysterious.
[Illustration: "En de 'omans mek answer en say: 'No, ma'am; we neber
steal none.'"]
"Cook," he said, "I got somepin' fo' tell yo'll 'stonish yo'. I study
'pon um till I confuse een my min'. I dunno ef I kin tell yo' straight,
but anyhow I'll try. Yisterday my wife en all de 'omans on de place,
gone fer chop cotton to Mr. O., en dem bin' a wuk en him wife run out en
'e say: 'So Miss Pennington hab fer giv' up plant cotton altogeder, una
steal um so bad! En de 'omans mek answer en say: 'No, ma'am; we neber
steal none.' Den de lady gon' een de house en bring out a newspaper
en read out de newspaper, en please God, an' Chloe 'e read out o' dat
newspaper eberyt'ing w'at happen on dis plantashun!
"De 'omans ben dat struck dem was same like a dumb pusson—dey was all
de gwine-on 'bout de cotton-fiel'. De paper tell how dem gon' een de
fiel, soon ne mornin' en pick de cotton, en w'en de moon shine how dem
pick de cotton, en how dem mek pilla en bolsta, en at las' mattrus out
de cotton, en ebery free-male been struck. 'Kase dem know 'twas all de
truf. W'en my wife cum home en tell me I had to mek him tell me ober
t'ree time befo' I git de onderstandin', en I ain't dun study yet how
come dat kin all bin een dat paper."
Chloe told it with much more dramatic force than I have. He went on:—
"De whole plantashun stir up. Some say dem g'wine 'way, say dis is a
witchcraf' place. Kyant onderstand how all dem sekrit kin git een de
newspaper. De only t'ing all de name different. I kyant remember wha
dem call Uncle Billy."
Chloe asked if there was anything about him.
"Yes, say how him seem like him couldn't ketch up wid de people, say
him do all he kin but him cudn't seem to manige dem."
Two days after that, Chloe says, my good little Georgie came to her
in great wrath. She had been at the reading and repeated the whole
story to Chloe with small variations and a good deal more minutely. Her
indignation was so great that Chloe tried to pacify her, but she would
not be pacified.
"What hurt me is that I ain't got a single pilla nor nothin' f'm de
cotton," she said. "I got my two lone fedder pilla I had w'en I married,
en ebrybody else got dere house chock full, en yet de disgrace fall on
me same like on dem."
Then she went on to recount the fine bedding all the others had. At last
Chloe said: "Well, Georgie, no one kyant help it; ain't yo' know dem
ben a-tek cotton fum de fiel' all de time?"
"To be sure I know, yo' cudn't help know."
"Did yo' eber tell Uncle Bonaparte 'bout dat?"
"No, I neber tell nobody."
"Well, den, you kyant say not'ing, en ef yo' only bin tell him onct,
yo' name would be clear; but now yo' kyant git mad 'bout dat, kase yo'
neber clear yo'self."
It was a new view to little Georgie, and helped somewhat to pacify her.
When Chloe left me I thought over it a long time, but concluded it was
best to take no notice of it in any way. The hands had all been a little
on their dignity: but I was pleased at that, because they did better
work to sustain the dignity, and that is all I want.
July 26.
A perfectly delightful temperature, so cool that I had to put on my
white flannel suit, made from my own wool, which is very warm. Old
Daddy Ancrum came and I was so glad to see the old man; after giving
him a good breakfast, got him to work out the peanuts, which he did
beautifully. He must be nearly ninety and yet does such beautiful work
and takes such pride in it.
He says Bonaparte is a child to him, and Bonaparte was born in 1833. I
wish the old man's farm was nearer. It is quite a large tract and he has
given a part to his son, Kilpatrick, who is a carpenter. If I could get
Ancrum to superintend the hoe work here it would make all the difference
in the world in the results. But he is greatly interested in his own
farm and only comes now and then when he wants something.
My rice is beautiful, contrary to all expectations. It is upland rice
and has stood the drought better than any of the other crops. Jean and
Florinda have worked it perfectly clean; there is not a spear of grass
and it is a rich dark green and growing apace.
I have Goliah at last in whole clothes. I had a very stout piece of sky
blue denim, and his first trousers were made of that, and with a blue
and white shirt he is quite startling. Then he has two white suits. I
choose white because I can see when they are clean, which I could not
do if they were dark colored. He is very proud and has redoubled his
activity.
He is so small that he has to have a box to stand on to harness the
horse, and even with that he cannot get the head-stall on without help.
He is very persistent and very gentle with "Root," as he calls her, and
I admire the graceful way in which Ruth has yielded to him. She really
tries to help him in every way and stands stock-still while he labors
with the fastenings of the collar and hames. Goliah has seen a good deal
of life and he feels that just now the lines have fallen in pleasant
places for him, and he does his little level best all the time.
On Sundays I take him to the church gate in his sky blue suit to carry
my music books for me. The first time he went he had a little wistful
look, so I said, "Would you like to go to church, Goliah?" "Yes, ma'am,"
he replied. So I took him in and showed him the pew reserved for his
color and told him to watch when people knelt and stood and sat, and to
do the same. As I sat in the choir at the other end of the church I had
to exercise my faith in his discretion. When I heard him say his little
catechism that evening he told me he "'joyed the chutch mutch. Befo' I
never cud stand to go to chutch, but I like dis, en I want you, please,
ma'am, to le' me go next Sunday." Of course I was very pleased, and ever
since he has gone to church and I am told by a most particular member
whom I asked to give an eye to him that he behaves perfectly.
I was so pleased with this that it was a shock to me to find that Chloe
disapproved intensely of it. When I asked her to leave the dinner for
Patty to cook the last Sunday our minister was here she said no, she
did not feel like going. I urged her to go, when to my amazement she
said, "No, ma'am! You t'ink I'd go en set down by dat chile een chutch?
No, ma'am, if I neber go to chutch I wouldn't set down by Goliah!" I
retreated before the unknown; you may live near these people all their
lives and never understand them. Goliah is preternaturally clean, for
I have to take him about in the buggy with me, and that is why I have
him wear white entirely; there is no concealing dirt on a white suit.
So that the scorn of sitting beside him comes from something different
and incomprehensible to me.
Poor Jim is terribly discouraged. The corn is being stolen daily.
After these rains the track of the thief is plainly to be seen, a very
big, bare foot. Jim called me to see it and I took a little cane and
measured the track and when I came home took my tape measure and found
it was fully thirteen inches long. A smaller foot is also visible.
Lizette tells Chloe how grand a time every one in the street has at
night with big pots of corn boiling on the fire and even the babies
eat it. What hope is there of ever making, or rather getting, a crop of
anything? They are as natural and unrestrained in getting at what they
want to eat as ants, and just as hard to frustrate and control.
Sunday.
This morning Goliah said he wanted to get off early as Jean was to be
baptized.
"Where?" I asked eagerly.
"Rite een de ribber, up to Belside."
"Oh," I said, "wait a minute; I must send her some things," and upstairs
I flew and turned my bureau drawers topsyturvy and found a complete
outfit, a white lawn skirt which is one of my prime favorites, having
a deep flounce around it, a white lawn shirt-waist, collar, and belt.
Poor, forlorn Jean, whose life I saved three years ago when she seemed
a certain victim to tuberculosis—and poor thing, I sometimes wonder if
I did her a kindness, so undisciplined and unfaithful to every duty does
she seem. And now to hear of her being about to step into the river and
wash away her sins!
I was greatly excited, and with trembling hands, for fear I would not
get them to her in time, I put up the parcel and sent Goliah off at a
full run.
July 28.
Another perfect morning. I read last evening an article on efficiency
which dwelt upon the necessity of relaxing, not pushing on, nerves and
muscles taut and strained all the time. That is my snare. I was much
impressed and determined to relax to-day and take a complete rest at
noon. I carried out my intention and relaxed, with the result I never
braced up again! Never was able to do a thing for the rest of the day.
July 29.
Had a very trying day—not money enough to pay off the hands in full,
and that always demoralizes me. I went down in the field to examine the
work. I always walk now, since reading an account of a visit to the work
on the Panama Canal, the writer having been nearly killed by the length
and rapidity of the walk, Col. Goethals saying, "If one wants to keep
well in this climate he must walk." Since then I make it a point to walk
a mile every day.
My own want of efficiency worries me. To-day again I relaxed and rested,
and I know it was a mistake and will not try it again—some people have
to stay braced.
Lizette, who is about fourteen, went last night to a "settin' up" three
miles from here. A woman had died whom she did not know at all, had
never seen in life. In the midst of the singing of "speretuals" and
shouting two small boys got into a fight, their parents joined in, and
in a few moments the "speretuals" and shouting were turned into cursing.
Poor things, poor things! Lizette was so worn out that when I came
down to breakfast I found her stretched out on the pantry dresser fast
asleep.
After breakfast Chloe came in and told me she was freezing cold and
could not get warm. I immediately went out to the kitchen and made a cup
of hot ginger tea, which I forced her to drink. I tried to get her to
go to bed, but in vain; she said if she once went to bed she knew she
would never get up again, and this melancholy view I did not combat. I
just said: "Then perhaps you had better stay up."
I made Jim cook as Chloe was too ill to do anything, though she would
not leave the kitchen until I had her big rocker brought and put under
an oak tree just in front of the kitchen and insisted on her sitting
there. Goliah was made to put on his white apron and wait, which made
him very proud.
God forgive me; but it does seem so hopeless when the elements are
banded together against one!
I must remember this is the time to show faith and courage.
Sunday, July 30.
The blessed day of rest. I wrote that this morning. It has been a
blessed day, but not one of rest exactly.
I had early in the week a letter from C. saying he would bring the dean
up this afternoon to have service at St. Peter's-in-the-Woods, about
nine miles from here, asking me to meet them there and saying they would
come home with me and spend the night. I think I did too much Thursday,
driving. Anyway I was very nervous.
I let Jim go down to Gregory Friday and spend the night with his family,
so that I could have him here to-day to drive me. I fixed all the
lamps and finished my household work, for this tall Lizette cannot be
trusted to do anything. Then at 10:30 got into the wagon behind Ruth
and Marietta to go to church in Peaceville.
I had been invited to dine by Mr. F. and M. had a delicious dinner. Then
I took them with me out to St. Peter's-in-the-Woods. There was a very
small and pathetic looking congregation. The notice had been short. Mr.
S., who had promised to give it, had not been very successful. These
people do not go to any post-office or have any mail, so any notice
to reach them has to be sent by hand to a few in time to have the word
passed round.
When the dean drove up with C. I saw him look around with wonder, first
at the very forlorn looking congregation talking together in groups,
and then at the very plain little board building which is the church,
standing in a group of trees on the edge of a swamp. I realized at once
that the eloquent divine had never come upon just such a church and just
such a congregation and that for the moment he was taken aback.
After a while the service began. The dean with his fine voice and in
his handsome vestments seemed quite too big and imposing for the little
chancel with its bare pine table and reading stand. The little baby
organ which was given to the chapel years ago has long been dumb, so I
had to raise the hymns. The dean helped much with the singing and read
beautifully.
When the time came for the sermon he read the miracle of the loaves
and fishes and then in a low, quiet voice talked. What he said was very
beautiful and very simple. With that hungry multitude and nothing but
one boy's individual store, our blessed Saviour might have made a great
and wonderful spectacle and by His word created thousands of loaves and
thousands of fishes and caused excitement and amazement; but He simply
asked the question, "How many loaves have ye?" told His disciples to
make the multitude sit down and to divide out what they had, and lo!
they had enough and to spare.
Then he pointed the lesson to us. Do not wait for great things, do not
long for great powers, for great opportunities; use the little you have
in faith and God will make it cover the need; use your little strength;
use your little talent; use your little store of whatever kind, and it
will suffice. I cannot give any idea of the effect, but I must write
down what I can so as not to forget it myself.
When I went out of church poor Betty C., whom I have known from her
girlhood and who has always looked old and weary, her capacities always
having been below her needs, said in her very slow, drawling voice:
"Miss Patience, is this here preacher comin' here ag'in?"
"Yes, Betty," I answered. "The dean says that whenever he can spare an
afternoon from his church in Gregory he will come."
"Well, Miss Patience, I'm mighty glad to hear it. Seems like I'd walk
any distance to listen to him."
"Well, Betty, you tell him that; it will please him."
Whether Betty ever made up her mind to such an effort as to tell the
dean I never knew. She is a woman of 46, tall, thin, bent, yellow, the
mother of seven children and one grandchild. Her husband is the owner
of much land and quite a stock of cattle, and plants a good farm. Her
life has been one long effort to keep up with her duties, for she has
faithfully tried in a feeble, helpless way to do her duty. That the
sermon should have reached her heart and helped her was a wonderful
tribute.
These pineland white people have a strange pathos about them, a wistful,
helpless look like some spirit that would fly, would soar, but is bound
securely to the earth. My, but they are pitiless to the one who falls
from their standard of morals! I asked several about poor Mrs. Lewis.
The answer was always with averted eyes, "I ain't heerd nothin' about
her for the longest." I tried one after another, but always the same
answer.
The Lewis family live but two miles from the church, just on the road,
and many of them pass the hut in coming to church, so there must be
something very wrong. If Louise, who teaches the Sunday-school, had been
there I could have found out what was the matter, but her last baby was
too young for her to come out, and it was too late for me to go to her
home.
The drive home was delightful. I got home about six and was able to have
supper all ready by the time C. and the dean got here. We had a charming
evening and I feel greatly refreshed mentally and spiritually in spite
of bodily fatigue.
July 31.
C. and the dean got off, to my great regret, about half past nine. It
is my dear C.'s birthday and Chloe made a nice sponge-cake in honor of
it.
After they left Chloe began to pour out a sad tale about Goliah. I had
forgotten to give notice that I would not be here for the Sunday-school
in the afternoon, and the children had arrived as usual at 4 o'clock
and Goliah had conducted them down to the garden and she hearing great
sounds of mirth and revelry went down and found them all with as many
peaches as they could possibly carry.
Of course she was very indignant and scolded them, Goliah specially,
whereupon Goliah's sister Catty, who is well named, being of a feline
nature in the worst sense of the word, had broken out and "cussed"
her outrageously. Altogether Chloe seemed anxious to impress upon me
that my efforts to teach them were quite thrown away and that it was a
constant danger to have that "gang o' little niggers" coming about on
Sunday afternoon when she was away usually. She said she did not take
the peaches from them, as it was Sunday.
I told her I was glad she did not. It is very hard on Chloe to see the
peaches which she has watched with such pride and picked so carefully so
that I may have a few every day as they ripen, taken off by the bushel
in that way, and I feel for her. The one faithful person does have a
hard time.
All these years I never had any fruit, but this summer I have had since
the last of June a watermelon every day for my lunch and peaches and
cream for breakfast or dinner, and both Chloe and I have rejoiced in
it. Besides she has made several jars of peach preserves and had hoped
to make several more.
I had to console Chloe as best I could and promise to be very severe on
Goliah. It is well that I had such a spiritual uplift yesterday, for
things seem specially sordid to-day. I wanted to do some writing, but
the little vexations were too numerous and engrossing. Woe is me not to
be stronger, to let myself be made useless by these gnat stings.
I went down to the field and found Rosetta and Anna and Becky doing
good work, also old Florinda and Jean. Then I came back and did some
necessary mending, and by afternoon quite late I went down to my table
by the river with the dogs and got back my serenity and ended the day
by working round the tomato plants.
Before he went home at 6 I called up Goliah and gave him a talk, told
him how hurt I was that the children whom I was trying so hard to teach
the beauty and worth of honesty should behave so. Then most unexpectedly
Goliah took all the blame and said:—
"Need not to blame de chillun, Miss Pashuns; not one bin een de gaa'den
but me. I gone over en I pick de peech en I give em to de chillun. Dem
all stan' outside de fence en I give evry one as mutch peech as him cud
tote."
This astonishing truth telling raised my spirits greatly; if Goliah had
broken one commandment he was coming out nobly in telling the truth and
not bearing "false witness against his neighbor." So I told him how glad
I was to hear that he alone had been guilty, but he must never be so
liberal with other people's things again.
[Illustration: "Dem all stan' outside de fence."]
Altogether I am going to bed in a very happy frame of mind. Chloe came
in after tea to talk and I tried to cheer her by telling her of Goliah's
confession, but it seemed only to add fuel to fire that he should have
the impudence to tell me to my face that he had taken all those peaches,
stripped the tree, etc. I am glad I cannot understand her point of view.
You cannot blame a person for being color blind or near-sighted; you
are just sorry for them and thankful that you have the joy of seeing
the distant clouds in all their gorgeous sunset hues.
A week ago I had a letter from Rab, whose four years under the worthy
Jenkins have still three months to run, begging me to bring him home.
It is a funny little letter. After the usual politeness which a darky
letter never leaves out, he says:—
"I t'ank you mutch, Miss Pashuns, fur all you done fur me, but now the
time is come fur me to do fur you, en I kin help you if you'll only send
fur me to come home. I kin milk, an' I kin plough, an' I kin drive purty
well. If you don't send fur me please come to see me right soon."
I was quite touched and felt like sending for him at once, though the
time I brought him home after typhoid fever was most unsuccessful, for
he shot himself and as soon as he was out of the doctor's hands I sent
him back. Now there is a difficulty as to where he would sleep if he
came back. I approached Chloe as to fixing up the little room off of her
room for him, but she was so upset at the idea that I gave it up. I know
it would be folly to put him alone in a house outside; he would simply
have every vagabond in the country to sleep with him or spend his time
running over the country at night, which could only lead to trouble. I
am disappointed in Rab's scholarship. The handwriting is passable, but
everything else is pretty bad.
August 1.
After breakfast was going to the field when Chloe came in terribly
excited and said she was going into the field to beat Jean, who had told
a lie upon her. When Chloe's blood is up there is no stopping her; I
really was frightened, for I did not know what would happen.
I went to the barn-yard to give out the feed when Chloe returned,
dragging Jean by the arm. I sent for Lizette and Goliah, heard the whole
story, and held court. A complete lie Jean had told, saying Chloe had
met her at the pump yesterday and told her that Lizette and Louisa said
Jean's clothes never looked well on her because they were all stolen. By
this time all the hands had assembled and there was quite an audience.
Chloe, still holding Jean tightly by the arm, asked:—
"Did I speak to you at all yesterday, Jean?"
"No, ma'am," said Jean.
Chloe said, "Lizette, you yere dat?" And so on it went, Jean confessing
that it was also false what she had said, that wretched Goliah had said
he would cut Chloe open with a knife.
After Chloe had said her say, I said a few words in judgment: that
they could be indicted but I would only require that they ask Chloe to
forgive them for their outrageous conduct. To my great surprise Jean
stepped forward and said:—
"I beg your paadon, An' Chloe," extending her hand, which Chloe took
and with a grand air said: "I fergiv' you, Jean."
Thankful to have the court so peacefully adjourned I came back to the
house and spent the morning cutting out Chloe's "fine black" frock and
an extra waist. I always offer to cut out for her, but it ends in my
stitching it all up on the machine.
It has been another perfect day and night. How wonderfully good of the
Creator to make this world so beautiful.
August 4.
Read till twelve last night; I felt the need of relaxation and
diversion. Finished "Routledge Rides Alone," which I have enjoyed
immensely, though there is too much war for me.
The working of the potatoes is almost finished. Jim is cutting tops of
the oldest corn. I always have a fight over the cutting of the tops,
but I insist on doing it because it makes nearly twice as much forage.
Nelly Thompson paid me a long visit. I had just washed my hair and was
busy sewing while it dried so I asked her up into my room, which pleased
her much. She is the widow of our faithful and devoted servant Nelson,
and I always like to do her honor in a small way, though she is not at
all made of the same clay as her husband.
When she was going I presented her with an embroidered black scarf
of mamma's about two yards long and three-quarters wide and she was
very happy. From the dates she gave me she must be 78. She is Jim's
mother-in-law.
The first of this month I sent a notice to the five young men negroes,
who rent houses on my place, that they must pay up their rent. The
agreement was that they should pay $1 every month for the house and
three or four acres of garden and field. No one has paid, and I must
have the money or their work.
I thought writing a formal letter might do what speech had not
accomplished, but as yet there has been no result. I want to gather my
fodder, and need all the hands I can get, to do it before the weather
changes.
August 14.
Went to Casa Bianca to-day. The peas are up nicely there, though the
ground looks very rough. At Cherokee the men gave me one day's work on
their rent as a great concession and I got in the fodder.
Poor little Laycock has made up her mind to sit on her beautiful little
nest of eggs and no power can stop her. There she sits through the
broiling heat of the day, and there is no hope, for a pullet's first
eggs never hatch. I have tried every method known to stop her, except
ducking her in water; that I would not do.
That instinct of fulfilling one's destiny and duty is very wonderful.
The heat has been fierce, and the box is in the full sunshine, the
scarlet geraniums in full bloom, and at first her little comb was as red
as they, but gradually it has paled till it is a dull gray now. There
she sits gasping with her poor little mouth wide open. I put water by
her, but she does not avail herself of it.
Twice a day she flies down and goes to the well, and is fed, making a
tremendous ado among the other fowls, and then back again to her post.
It is a thing to excite the most enthusiastic admiration, that adherence
to the post of duty—duty for its own sake. I am going to have the box
taken out under a tree, where at least she will not suffer so.
August 22.
A negro man and his wife asked to see me early this morning, whom I
did not know, though they were descendants, both of them, of our own
people, and I wondered what they could want. My joy was great when I
found they wanted one of my heifers, and had brought the money. The man
was bargaining with me trying to get it for $10 when the woman said:—
"Miss, I may's well tell you I wants one o' your breed o' cow, en I got
de $15 in me pocket fo' pay fo' em."
So I sold her my beautiful Dodo, and I promised to keep her in my
pasture until their fields were open. It is a mercy to me to have this
unexpected sale.
Last week I sold Peacock with her picture calf. I nearly wept, but yet
was glad to get an offer for her. She was a pale gray, with eyes all
over like the feathers of a peacock and a splendid milker.
I don't allow myself to put down anything about the heat; after seeing
little Laycock's unmurmuring endurance in her maternal zeal, I feel it
is unworthy to dwell upon or even mention the subject, but it has been
terrific.
Yesterday, as I drove down, at one place where the pines are thick a
splendid wild turkey rose just in front of us and soared away, greatly
to Ruth's alarm. To-day very near the same place we came on a number
of them. There must be a growth just there of the berries on which they
feed.
I had the wagon and men at Hasty Point landing at daylight waiting for
the steamboat, which was due there at that hour. It did not come until
twelve, but the church organ was on board and put at once into the wagon
and brought out here, where Miss Penelope and myself superintended
the unpacking and had it put into the church. Just as this was done
there came a downpour of rain. I am so rejoiced that the organ has been
restored to the church and is now in perfect order. This great blessing
we owe to a generous friend at a distance, who this spring sent the
money to pay for the repairs and freight.
Sunday.
A perfect morning. Oh, the joy of this blessed day of rest and peace!
That the Almighty One, who needed no rest, whose powers are infinite,
should have ordained this seventh day of repose and cessation from
toil, seems too wonderful. As I sat at breakfast (a plump little summer
duck) and looked out into the depths of foliage, all shades from the
solemn, steady green of the great live oaks through the wild cherry's
shining leaves, the Pride of India's diaphanous fronds, the walnut's
dull, yellowish, palmlike branches down to the vivid apple green of
the grass—all so perfect, so full of beauty and delight for the eye of
man—on this His day, here in my isolation the love and mercy of God and
the joy of His great gift of life intoxicate me. I feel as David must
have felt when he wrote some of those glorious shouts of joy and praise.
I long to give expression to my overflowing gratitude.
Monday.
A dreary day of rain, which I found it hard to get through. This is a
sad season to me. I do not believe in keeping anniversaries, but they
hold one in spite of every effort. Even when there is much of interest
going on around, there is deep down within the heart that nag, nag, nag
of memory, like the toll of a bell, every day, every hour, every moment
of the agony, thirty years gone by. The maddening "Why was not this
done?" "If only that had been done!" and so for the time one forgets
God and His everlasting arms and centres the mind on poor human agencies
and possibilities. One cannot read, one cannot sew, one cannot pray.