Books by Joel Chandler Harris.

LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER AND HIS QUEER COUNTRY. Illustrated by Oliver Herford.

MR. RABBIT AT HOME. A Sequel to Little Mr. Thimblefinger and His Queer Country. Illustrated by Oliver Herford.

THE STORY OF AARON (SO-NAMED) THE SON OF BEN ALI. Told by his Friends and Acquaintances. Illustrated by Oliver Herford.

AARON IN THE WILDWOODS. Illustrated by Oliver Herford.

PLANTATION PAGEANTS. Illustrated by E. Boyd Smith.

NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS. Illustrated.

UNCLE REMUS AND HIS FRIENDS. Illustrated.

MINGO, AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND WHITE.

BALAAM AND HIS MASTER, AND OTHER SKETCHES.

SISTER JANE, HER FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES. A Narrative of Certain Events and Episodes transcribed from the Papers of the late William Wornum.

TALES OF THE HOME FOLKS IN PEACE AND WAR. Illustrated.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston and New York

DRUSILLA FELL ON THE GROUND IN A HEAP ([Page 23])

The Story of Aaron
(SO NAMED)
The Son of Ben Ali

TOLD BY HIS FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES

BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
AUTHOR OF “UNCLE REMUS,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVER HERFORD

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge

Copyright, 1895,
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

Copyright, 1896,
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

All rights reserved.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE STORY OF AARON.

I.
THE LANGUAGE OF THE ANIMALS.

The story of how Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla found their way into Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country has been set forth, and many of the tales they heard there have been told. All of this matter has been put into a book, where the curious may now find it. This being so, it is not necessary to go over it again. Imitation is bad enough, but repetition is worse. It is enough to say, therefore, that these children whose names have been mentioned lived on a large plantation in Middle Georgia, in that part of the country where cotton grows, where the mocking-birds sing in the orchards, and where the roses bloom in the open air from April to November.

There is nothing tropical or even semi-tropical in Middle Georgia. The trees and shrubs and all of the wild flowers are much the same as those that grow in New England. The summers are not so hot nor the winters so long and cold in Middle Georgia as they are farther to the north; but warm weather lasts longer, and that is the reason that cotton and sugar-cane and watermelons can be raised in Middle Georgia in the open air.

The plantation on which the children lived appeared to be just like all the other plantations round about, but the youngsters had already found out that it was entirely different from the rest in some respects. So far as they knew, and they had made careful inquiries, there was no Mr. Thimblefinger on any one of the neighboring plantations, and there was no road leading from any other plantation to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

On Sundays when there was a big meeting going on at Mt. Zion church, and the congregation carried dinner in hamper baskets, Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla (their negro nurse and playmate) took pains to inquire among the children they met there if any of them had ever seen Mr. Thimblefinger. The reply was that they had not only never seen him, but had never even heard of him before. This made Buster John feel more important than ever, and Sweetest Susan said she was surprised and sorry that the other children should have failed to see Mr. Thimblefinger, and they so near his queer country, too. As for Drusilla, she declared that it made no difference, anyhow, “Kaze ef dey wuz ter see ’im wid der naked eyes dey wouldn’t b’lieve dey seed ’im.” But the neighbor-children said nothing, they simply stared at one another and concluded that Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla were trying to make fun of them.

If the neighbor-children had been wise, they would have asked some questions about Mr. Thimblefinger, and then they would have found out that the Abercrombie place, as it was called, was different from all the other plantations they had ever heard of, being the scene of some of Mr. Thimblefinger’s performances, and containing within its boundaries the gateway to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, which lies next door to the world.

Those who have taken the trouble to read the book in which the stories told by Mr. Thimblefinger and his friends are partly set forth will remember that when Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were on the point of returning home, they were asked if they knew a man named Aaron. To which Buster John replied that he ought to know Aaron, since he was foreman of the field-hands. Whereupon Buster John was told that Aaron was the Son of Ben Ali, and knew the language of animals. “If you want to learn this language,” said Mr. Rabbit, “go to Aaron, Son of Ben Ali, take him by his left hand, bend the thumb back, and with your right forefinger make a cross mark on it. Should Aaron pay no attention to it, repeat the sign. The third time he will know it.”

But the minds of the children were so busy thinking of what they had seen and heard that they forgot all about the matter. Once when Buster John chanced to remember what he had been told, Aaron happened to be ill in bed. Another time, when the children determined to find out something about the language of the animals, they found that Aaron was away from home. He had gone with the wagons to Augusta, one hundred miles away, to sell the year’s crop of cotton. Thus, in one way and another, Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were many long months older when they sought and found Aaron in his cabin than they were when they made their last visit to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

Now Aaron was the most remarkable slave in all the country round, not because he was tall and finely formed, nor because he carried himself as proudly as a military officer, but because he had a well-shaped head, a sharp black eye, thin lips, and a nose prominent, but not flat. Another remarkable feature was his hair, which, instead of being coarse and kinky, was fine, thick, wavy, glossy, and as black as jet.

The negroes on the place seemed to be very much afraid of him. This would not have been strange if Aaron had been an old man; negroes always stand in awe of those who are very old; but he was not above forty, and seemed to be even younger. There were many stories current about Aaron, which the negroes told to each other in whispers when their cabin fires burned low. One was that he was a conjurer, and in league with the “old boy.” This was because Aaron refused to associate with his fellow servants on terms of equality, and would allow them to take no liberties with him.

Another story was that he was of Indian blood. But he had no Indian characteristic, except that of serenity. His color was dark brown. He was both quick in his movements and fluent in his speech, but his talk was different from that of the negroes. Still another story about Aaron was that he was very dangerous. It was whispered that he had killed several people, a number of women and children among them. This story grew out of the fact that he alone could manage Timoleon, the big black stallion. This horse, wild in his ways and fierce of temper, was as gentle as a dog in Aaron’s hands, and followed him about as the chicken follows the mother hen.

BUSTER JOHN WENT FORWARD AND KNOCKED

It was one Saturday, when Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla went to Aaron’s cabin. On the plantation there was a half-holiday every Saturday, if crop work was not pressing, and sometimes when the corn was laid by the negroes had a whole holiday. This was the case now. The children saw Aaron go into his cabin and half close the door after him. Buster John went forward and knocked. There was no invitation to “come in,” as there would have been at any other cabin in the negro quarters. Instead, Aaron came to the door, pulled it open and looked out with something like a frown on his face. But he smiled when he saw the children.

“Oh, you?” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t know who. Jump in!”

There was a step lacking among those leading to the door, so he seized Buster John by the hand and swung him into the room. Then he lifted Sweetest Susan a little more carefully, but ignored Drusilla altogether. This was not regarded by Drusilla as a slight, for she was not anxious to be touched by him. She was not even anxious to go into the cabin, but her curiosity was more powerful than her vague fears, and so, after a while, she followed the children in.

Aaron, still smiling, lifted Buster John high in the air. “Le’ me see; like enough you’d weigh ninety poun’.”

“Eighty-seven,” replied Buster John.

“Heavy! heavy!” exclaimed Aaron. “One time I toted your uncle all night long. He was sixteen-year old and weighed fifty poun’.”

“That was Uncle Crotchet, who is dead,” said Buster John.

“Yes. Folks named him Little Crotchet,” Aaron remarked.

“That was ever so long ago,” suggested Sweetest Susan.

“Fifteen year,” said Aaron.

Meanwhile Buster John pretended to be playing with Aaron’s left hand. Finally he seized the thumb, bent it back as far as it would go, and made a cross-mark on it. Aaron playfully jerked his hand away, but Buster John caught it again, bent the thumb back and again made the cross-mark. Apparently Aaron paid no attention to this, for he failed to take his hand away. Once more, and for the third time, Buster John bent the thumb back and made the cross-mark. At once Aaron put him gently aside and went to the door and closed it. Then he turned to Buster John and said in a whisper:—

“How come? Where you been? Who told you?”

Buster John was so much surprised that he hesitated a moment, and then began to reply in a tone of voice somewhat louder than usual.

“Sh-sh! talk low!” whispered Aaron. “Did somebody tell you to do that?”

“Yes,” said Buster John.

“Round anywhere by the spring?” Aaron was very cautious in putting his questions. Apparently he wanted to make himself perfectly sure.

“Yes,” cried Sweetest Susan. “The spring is the gate, you know.”

“She, too?” asked Aaron, nodding his head toward Drusilla.

“Of course,” said Buster John.

“I dunner how come I can’t go whar de yuthers does,” remarked Drusilla.

“All right—all right!” exclaimed Aaron. Then he counted them. “One—two—three! And now you’ve come to me. What for?”

“We want to learn how to talk with the animals,” said Buster John.

Aaron, who had been frowning a little, seemed to be relieved. The frown disappeared.

“Oho,” he cried, “is that all? ’Tain’t much, yet it’s a heap. You’ll hear lots of sassy talk. Sometimes, maybe, you’ll have to stop up your ears.”

“We won’t mind that,” remarked Buster John.

“Maybe not,” said Aaron. Then he went to a large wooden chest that sat in the corner, unlocked it, and presently brought forth a bundle of red cloth. This he placed on the floor and sat beside it, motioning the children to sit on the floor in a circle around the bundle. He unrolled the cloth until he came to an oval-shaped mirror. The frame was heavy and richly carved, and shone as bright as new silver shines.

Aaron placed the beautiful mirror carefully on the floor, face up. Then he threw the red cloth over his head and over the children’s heads. If any one had been peeping through the chinks of the chimney he would have been very much puzzled by what he saw and heard. He would have seen the red cloth bobbing up and down as if those underneath were bowing their heads back and forth, and he would have heard muffled exclamations of wonder, the loudest of all being Drusilla’s involuntary cry:—

“Don’t dat beat all!”

AARON SHOWING THE MIRROR

The children never told what happened under the cloth, nor what they saw in the mirror. When Aaron rose to his feet, the cloth still over his head, he made a few movements with his arms, and lo! there was the bundle in his hands with the mirror wrapped in its folds.

Sweetest Susan looked at Buster John. “Wasn’t it easy?” she cried. “Did you ever see anything as bright”—She would have said more, but Aaron touched her gently on the arm and put his finger on his lips. At that moment a gander in the spring lot began to scream.

“What did he say?” asked Aaron, looking at Drusilla.

“He say, ‘I’m gwine atter water—water—who wanter go?’”

Aaron seemed satisfied with the answer. He replaced the bundle in the chest, turned the key and then leaned against the rude mantel shelf he had nailed over his fireplace.

“You think I’m a nigger, don’t you?” He turned to Buster John.

“Of course,” said the youngster without hesitation. “What else are you?”

“I’ll show you.” From his pocket Aaron drew a little package—something wrapped in soft leather and securely tied. It was a memorandum book. Opening this small book, Aaron held it toward Buster John, saying “What’s here?”

“It looks like pothooks,” replied the boy, frankly.

“Ain’t a word in it I can’t read,” said Aaron.

“Read some of it, please,” pleaded Sweetest Susan.

Thereupon Aaron began to read from the book in a strange tongue, the tone of his voice taking on modulations the children had never heard before.

“I ain’t never hear no jabber like dat,” said Drusilla.

“What sort of talk is it?” asked Buster John.

“’Tain’t no creetur talk,” remarked Drusilla; “I know dat mighty well.”

“It’s the talk of Ben Ali,” said Aaron—“Ben Ali, my daddy. Every word here was put down by him.”

“Why, I’ve heard grandpa talk about uncle Ben Ali,” suggested Buster John.

Aaron nodded. “Many a time. Your grandpa, my master, tried to buy my daddy, but Ben Ali was worth too much. I went to see him with my master twice a year till he died. He was no nigger.”

“What then?” Buster John asked.

“Arab—man of the desert—slave hunter—all put down here,” said Aaron, tapping the little book with his finger.

The children were anxious to hear more about Ben Ali, the Arab—Ben Ali the slave hunter, who had himself become a slave. There was not much to tell, but that little was full of interest as Aaron told it, sitting in his door, the children on the steps below him. For the most part the book was a diary of events that had happened to Ben Ali after he landed in this country, being written in one of the desert dialects; but the first few pages told how the Arab chief happened to be a slave.

Ben Ali was the leader of a band that made constant war on some of the African tribes in the Senegambian region. With their captives, this band of Arabs frequently pushed on to the Guinea coast and there sold them to the slave traders. These excursions continued until, on one occasion, the Arabs chanced to clash with a war-loving tribe, which was also engaged in plundering and raiding its neighbors. The meeting was unexpected to the Arabs, but not to the Africans. The Arabs who were left alive were led captive to the coast and there sold with other prisoners to slave traders. Among them was Ben Ali, who was then not more than thirty years old. With the rest, he was brought to America, where he was sold to a Virginian planter, fetching a very high price. Along with him, in the same ship, was an Arab girl, and she was also bought by the planter. Nothing was said in the diary in regard to the history of this girl, except that she became Ben Ali’s wife, and bore him a son and a daughter. The son was Aaron, so named. The daughter died while yet a child.

These things Aaron told the children, little by little and in a rambling way, begging Buster John and Sweetest Susan to say nothing about the matter to any other person, and threatening Drusilla with uplifted finger that if she opened her mouth about it he would put “the misery” on her. Drusilla had seen negroes who were the victims of “the misery”—which is the plantation name of the spell that conjurers put on people, and she declared over and over again that she wouldn’t tell—“crossing her heart” to show that she meant what she said.

“Can we talk with the animals sure enough—the horses, the cows, the sheep, the dogs, and the hogs?” asked Buster John.

Aaron smiled as he answered: “A little bit now, more pretty soon. The sheep—I don’t know. Sheep don’t talk much around me. But the others are talking all the time. You must watch all the motions they make, shutting the eye, switching the tail, flopping the ear, stamping the foot—all part of the talk.”

“When shall we try?” asked Buster John.

“Right after dinner,” replied Aaron; “we’ll go see old Timoleon.”

“Timoleon!” cried Sweetest Susan, in dismay.

Aaron laughed and nodded his head. “We’ll take him out the stable and see what he says. Timoleon good talker.”

“Oh, I’m afraid to go!” cried Sweetest Susan. “Mamma told me never to go near Timoleon’s stable.”

“I’ll tell you de plain trufe,” said Drusilla vehemently, “I wouldn’t go up dar in dat fiel’ whar dat hoss is—I wouldn’t go dar, not fer money. Ain’t I done see ’im jump on a nigger man an’ tar de cloze off’n ’im? Uh-uh! you don’t ketch me up dar!”

“Little Missy will go with me,” remarked Aaron. Then he pointed to Drusilla. “You go or stay, but, look out! No talk!”

“I’ll set on de fence an’ see de hoss eat ’em up,” suggested Drusilla, by way of a compromise.

“She’ll go if I do,” said Sweetest Susan.

“You mus’n’t be agwine, den,” was Drusilla’s comment.

Aaron looked at the girl so severely that she shrank back.

“Don’t mind Drusilla,” said Sweetest Susan. “She doesn’t mean anything she says, except when she asks for something to eat.”

“After dinner we’ll go see Timoleon. If he seems like he’s in good humor,” Aaron explained, “we’ll bring him out. If he has been fretting, we’ll let him stay.”

This was perfectly satisfactory to the children, especially to Buster John.

They went to play, but they only pretended to play. All they could do was to discuss what they had already seen and heard, and what they hoped to see and hear. Time seemed to pass very slowly. They sat down and talked, and then walked about and talked, but still it was not dinner time. They would have become very impatient indeed had not Buster John chanced to hear the big gray rooster call out to the yellow hen:—

“Run, run, run! Here’s a bug!”

The yellow hen went running, but just as she reached the gray rooster he turned and walked away with great dignity, saying: “Come on, let’s go; come on.”

“I might have known it,” complained the yellow hen; “you are like all the rest of the roosters. A respectable hen can’t depend on anything you say.”

“Come on, come on,” said the big gray rooster, strutting along, “I was just trying to get you away from that one-eyed dominicker. He’s not fit company for you to associate with.”

“Hoity-toity!” cried the yellow hen. “And didn’t I see you this morning scratching your toes off for the Friesland pullet?”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan laughed heartily at this, but Drusilla was very serious.

“I dunno which de wuss,” she cried, “chickens er folks.”

After that, time no longer hung heavy on the children’s hands. When the dinner bell rang, Buster John and Sweetest Susan were on hand promptly, with their faces washed and their hair combed. They were so anxious to get through their dinner that they ate rapidly, and this attracted the attention of their mother, who wanted to know what they had been doing to make them so hungry. The only satisfaction she got was a request to “Please, ma’m, make haste and have some dinner fixed for Drusilla.”

This was very soon done, and in a little while the children were ready to go with Aaron to see Timoleon.

II.
A RIDE ON THE BLACK STALLION.

Aaron was not ready as soon as the children were, but they waited for him with lamblike patience, considering their eagerness. Finally Aaron came out of his cabin and waved his hand as a signal that he was ready. The children ran to him, and together they went to the barn, where Timoleon had his stable. This barn had once been the corn crib. It was built of stout logs, hewn square and mortised together, and was in the middle of a five-acre field that had once been in cultivation, but was now overrun with Bermuda grass. Here Timoleon reigned in solitude, except when Aaron was with him. In this stable he remained securely imprisoned, save when Aaron took him out for exercise.

Timoleon was a horse renowned throughout the country—renowned for his victories on the race track and for his vicious temper. Even in his old age he was fleet and fierce, more dangerous, people said, than a tiger, and stronger than a lion. Fierce and strong, he was also beautiful. His coat glistened in the sun like satin. His mane was flowing and heavy, his tail long and full. His neck and shoulders were thick and powerful; his head tapering to the muzzle, his ears small and in constant motion, as when the night wind stirs the leaves of the willow; his nostrils red and flexible, and all his motions quick and graceful.

As Aaron and the children approached the stable, they heard Timoleon pounding against the heavy logs with his feet.

“I’m gwine back!” cried Drusilla. “He tryin’ ter git out now.”

But she kept along with the rest.

“What is the matter with him?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“He’s fretting,” replied Aaron—“fretting or playing.”

He went to the stable door and unlocked it, saying “What now?”

“Son of Ben Ali, what have I done?” cried Timoleon. “To-day I go hungry because the corn is on the cob, to-morrow I’ll be foundered because the corn is shelled. Is it, then, nothing to you that I am old and my teeth are bad? What have I done? As for the fodder, it is full of dust. To put my nose in it is to cough all night. In the desert, I have been told an old horse has new rice and cracked barley.”

Buster John looked at Sweetest Susan, and Sweetest Susan looked at Buster John. They were too much astonished to say anything.

“Even so, Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron, “what says the sun on the wall above your trough? Does it stand at the dinner hour? Why grumble, then, about corn on the cob that I have saved for the grunter?”

“What is the Grunting Pig to me, Son of Ben Ali? Or the sun on the wall? The dinner hour of those who are hungry comes best when it comes quickest. I have hurt my teeth on your nubbins. Take them away.”

Saying this, Timoleon snorted contemptuously. Then suddenly he gave a loud snort of surprise and anger. His quick and restless eye had caught sight of Sweetest Susan’s dress through a crack in the door.

“Son of Ben Ali,” he said, “what is this? You are not alone.”

“No, Grandson of Abdallah, I have brought three of my friends,” replied Aaron.

“Who are they, Son of Ben Ali?”

“Two grandchildren of the White-haired Master and their servant.”

“Why have they come?”

“As I have touched your knee, so they have touched my thumb. Once, twice, thrice.”

Timoleon turned from the door, walked to the far end of his stable, and then returned.

“The grandchildren of the White-haired Master are wise,” he said.

“So it seems,” replied Aaron.

“Then let me touch them with my nose, so that hereafter I may know them.”

Aaron opened the door and Timoleon strode out. He had on neither halter nor bridle, and the children shrank and cowered behind Aaron.

“Son of Ben Ali, what does this mean?” asked Timoleon.

“It means that they are children who have heard that the Grandson of Abdallah is a savage beast,” replied Aaron.

Timoleon with lowered head went to the children and pressed his muzzle gently against the shoulder of each—against Buster John first, Sweetest Susan next, and Drusilla last. They were all frightened, but Drusilla’s terror was such that her face, black as it was, took on an ashen hue. To make matters worse, Timoleon snorted suddenly and loudly when he pressed his nose on her shoulder. She gave a piercing scream, and fell on the ground in a heap. Timoleon sprang back as though an attack had been made on him. It was all so comical that Aaron laughed, and Buster John and Sweetest Susan relieved the strain on their feelings by joining him boisterously—almost hysterically. Drusilla, hearing this, rose to her feet with anger in her eyes.

“I dunner what you-all white chillun laughin’ at. Ef you speck I’m gwineter stan’ flat-footed an’ let dat ar hoss bite de top er my head off, you done gone an’ fooled yo’se’f. I know’d what he wuz gwine ter do, time I seed de white er his eye. His breff hot nuff ter burn yo’ han’. What he want ter come doin’ dat a way fer? I don’t want no hoss ter be huggin’ me wid his upper lip nohow. I’ll tell anybody dat.”

While Drusilla was quarreling, Timoleon was grazing near by, and Aaron and the children were still laughing.

“Ef you-all think it so funny, go dar whar dat hoss is, an’ let ’im nibble at you an’ blow his nose on you a time er two.”

“What does she say, Son of Ben Ali?” Timoleon asked, raising his head from the rank Bermuda grass.

“She says she thought you were about to bite off her head.”

Timoleon gave a snort of contempt, and addressed himself again to the dainty feast before him.

“Not too much of that, Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron. “You are too fat now. You need exercise. How long since you have had a gallop?”

“A month of Sundays, Son of Ben Ali.”

“To-day you shall have one. On your head I will place a halter, on your broad back I will strap your blanket. On the blanket I will place my friends and yours, the grandchildren of the White-haired Master. But listen! a stumble, and I’m done with you; any trickery, and the Son of Ben Ali will come near you no more.”

“So may it be, Son of Ben Ali.”

“I believe you, Grandson of Abdallah. You are to go by yonder gate through the lane to the great road. From there it is a mile and a half to the gate that opens on the avenue, leading to the house of the White-haired Master. At that gate I shall await you. Then up the avenue to the house you are to go, and three times around the boxwood circle where the avenue ends.”

“So it shall be, Son of Ben Ali. Have you not carried a noggin of water on my back and set me at a gallop without spilling a drop? So it shall be now, Son of Ben Ali.”

Aaron went into the stable and came forth with a halter. This he threw on Timoleon’s head, passing the loose end over the horse’s neck and tying it in the ring, thus forming reins for the rider to handle. Then he folded a heavy blanket four times, placed it on the horse’s back, and strapped it down with a surcingle.

“Not too tight—not too tight, Son of Ben Ali,” said Timoleon, backing his ears a little.

“Now, then, for a ride,” said Aaron, turning to the children.

“Oh, I’m afraid!” cried Sweetest Susan. “Mamma would be angry.”

“Try him here, in the lot,” suggested Aaron to Buster John.

Now Buster John was a pretty good rider for a youngster, and was somewhat proud of the fact. He had even helped to break a young mule to the saddle. So, after a little persuasion, he allowed Aaron to lift him to Timoleon’s back.

“Easy, now,” said Aaron.

The black stallion stepped proudly off. From a swinging walk he broke into an easy canter, which soon became a swinging gallop. Before he had gone around the field, Buster John had lost all fear, and from his gently undulating seat waved his hand gayly to Sweetest Susan.

“Oh, I wish I could go, too!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“Why not, little Missy?” said Aaron. “I have seen you riding the Gray Pony without a saddle.”

“But he is as gentle as a dog,” explained Sweetest Susan.

“Why, so is Timoleon,” replied Aaron. “Try him. I will run beside him to catch you, if you fall. I’ll not run far before you will say, ‘Go back!’”

A RIDE ON THE BLACK STALLION

By this time Timoleon came sweeping up to where they stood, and stopped. Buster John’s face fairly glowed with the delight he felt.

“Well,” said Sweetest Susan, unable to resist the temptation. “Well, I’ll go, but if I fall”—

Before she could finish what she had to say, the strong arms of Aaron had lifted her to a seat behind Buster John.

“How can you fall?” asked that bold youngster. “Hold fast to me. Put your arms around me, and when you fall, let me know.”

“You didn’t talk that way just now,” said Sweetest Susan. To this Buster John made no reply. Aaron stood beside the black stallion and stroked his neck.

“Grandson of Abdallah, show me what you are this day. Once around the field, and then to the lane gate.”

The horse took three long strides forward, and then broke into a canter as before. Aaron ran beside Timoleon a little way, one hand on Sweetest Susan’s elbow to give her confidence, but he soon saw that she had lost all fear, and so, still running, he went to the gate that opened in the lane and threw it back, and stood there. The black stallion, going in a steady gallop, swept around the field, and then came toward the gate. The children were laughing.

“Don’t forget, Grandson of Abdallah! You know my hand!” This was Aaron’s last warning, as Timoleon went through the gate. The Son of Ben Ali watched horse and riders for a few moments. Then he closed the gate and ran swiftly through the lot, going toward the head of the avenue that led to the big house. The lane, half a mile in length, led obliquely away from the house and from the avenue until it joined the public road. From that point, turning squarely to the left, the distance to the avenue gate was about a mile. From the stable to the avenue gate, through the spring lot—the way Aaron went—was not quite half a mile.

“If I go too fast, grandson of the White-haired Master,” said Timoleon, as they turned into the public road, “touch me on the shoulder. And don’t be frightened when I lift my head and tell the fools I am coming.”

As they came in sight of the negro quarters, Timoleon raised his head high in the air and neighed shrilly three times in quick succession. It sounded like a challenge to man and beast. That plantation had heard it many times before, and it had usually been the forerunner of some display of savagery on the part of the black stallion—sometimes a negro run down and trampled, sometimes a mule or a cow crippled; but always something. The sound of it was heard with dismay, except by Aaron.

It was no wonder, therefore, that the negroes came out of their cabins with alarm painted on their faces. It was no wonder they stood transfixed when they saw the horse flying along the road, his thick mane whipping the wind, with the two children on his back. They had no time to admire the strength and symmetry of the horse, and yet he presented a beautiful sight—his glossy neck arched, his long mane enveloping the children as in a cloud, the undulations of his magnificent form and his swift movements the perfection of grace.

Once more, as he thundered across the bridge that spanned the stream leading from the spring, the black stallion screamed forth his note of defiance. A man, coming along the road, went over the fence as nimbly as a squirrel. Cows grazing in the fields, near the roadside, hoisted their tails in the air and ran off to the woods. The mules in the horse lot ran around aimlessly, and then huddled themselves together in a corner. The Gray Pony went scampering through the peach orchard, hunting a place of safety.

Then the cry went up from the negro quarters, “Timoleon’s loose! Timoleon’s loose!” The cry was echoed at the big house. The children’s father laid down the book he was reading, and went out upon the veranda, followed quickly by his wife. The grandfather rose from his easy chair and joined them. They heard the tremendous clatter of hoofs on the hard road and the screaming stallion. They saw Aaron running up the avenue, followed by Drusilla. Calamity seemed to have swooped down upon the plantation. A negro woman, bolder than the rest, had managed to run to the big house. She rushed through it, without regard for ceremony.

“Mistiss, dem blessed chillun”—

She wanted to say were riding the runaway stallion, but she sank to the floor, speechless.

“Oh, my children! my children! Where are my precious children?” cried the mother.

At that moment Aaron reached the avenue gate, opened it wide, and the black stallion cantered through it, and came galloping down the drive.

“I see the children,” said the white-haired grandfather. “They are safe. They have been giving Timoleon his exercise. See! they are laughing and waving their hands!”

The mother looked, but the sight seemed to terrify her so that she covered her face with her hands. Only for a moment, however. She looked again, thinking they were wringing their hands and crying for help. But, no! they were really laughing. In front of the yard gate there was an ornamental circle, filled with neatly trimmed box-wood, privet and acacia bushes. Coming to this circle Timoleon turned to the right and galloped around it, the children waving their hands to their mother, father and grandfather. With his waving mane and flowing tail, his arched and shining neck, and his graceful movements, the horse presented a spectacle long to be remembered.

“Why, they are riding him with a halter!” cried the father, taking fresh alarm.

“How many times have I told you he is the gentlest horse I ever knew?” sighed the grandfather. “Ah, what a magnificent creature he is! What a pity he is penned on this plantation!”

Three times around the circle Timoleon galloped, and then wheeled toward the gate that led to the stable lot. The children waved a mock farewell to the still astonished spectators, who, standing on the veranda, heard Timoleon go clattering to the rear of the house.

The mother recovering from her fright, which was serious, became very angry, and this was not serious at all.

“That is Aaron’s work,” she cried, “and the children shall never go about him any more.”

“Aaron will thank you, if you’ll stick to your word,” said the grandfather. “I bought Aaron fifteen years ago, and I have never had occasion to undo anything he has ever done. I owe him a debt of gratitude that I could never repay if I were to live a thousand years.”

“I know, father—I know,” replied the children’s mother, more gently. “But he gave me a terrible fright just now.”

Timoleon galloped to his stable, and stood there waiting for Aaron. Sweetest Susan, holding to Buster John’s hand, slid to the ground, and then Buster John followed suit.

“You might take the halter off, little one,” said Timoleon, and he held his head so that the youngster could unbuckle the strap. Then the horse began to graze as contentedly as any farm animal. Presently Aaron came with a bucket of cool water from the spring. Timoleon buried his nose in it, drank his fill, and then washed his mouth by sucking up the water and letting it run out over his tongue and teeth. Then the blanket was removed and the Grandson of Abdallah stretched himself on the warm grass and had a good wallow. After that Aaron rubbed him off thoroughly, gave him a bait of oats, and, while he ate, went over his silky coat with a currycomb and brush, whistling all the while in a peculiar way.

III.
GRISTLE, THE GRAY PONY, BEGINS HIS STORY.

The ride on Timoleon, which was an exciting one from start to finish, was enough fun for the children for one day. They sought no other amusement. When they had seen Aaron feed and groom the horse, they went to the big house, where they knew the ride had created a sensation. There, in answer to numberless questions asked by their mother, they told a part of the story of their ride. They said nothing about hearing Timoleon talk, for they knew that not even their grandfather would believe that part of the story. But they told all about the ride, how swiftly and easily the horse went, and how gentle he was. Buster John was, of course, quite a hero, and Sweetest Susan shared all the honors with him.

The children’s mother had more than half a notion to read them a lecture; but the white-haired grandfather protested against this. He said the youngsters were perfectly safe in Aaron’s care. He declared he didn’t want to see boys play the part of girls, nor girls act like dolls. Then he began to talk about Little Crotchet, who had been so fond of Aaron. It was curious to the children to hear the white-haired grandfather talk of their uncle (whom they had never seen) as though he were a little boy.

“It seems but yesterday,” said the old gentleman, with a gentle sigh that ended in a smile, “that Little Crotchet was hobbling through the house on his crutches, or scampering about the neighborhood on the Gray Pony. But the Gray Pony is grazing out there in the orchard, and Little Crotchet has been dead these fifteen years. If he were alive now, he would be twenty-nine years old.”

The old gentleman fell to musing, and sat silent for a little while. Then he went on, as if talking to himself:—

“And I am seventy-three, and Aaron is forty, and, let me see, the pony is eighteen, and Timoleon seventeen. All getting old.”

“Uncle Crotchet wasn’t always crippled, was he, grandfather?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“Oh, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Until he was seven years old he was as healthy a child as I ever saw. Then he was suddenly taken ill, and lay in his bed for months. After that he was never able to walk without crutches. Twenty-nine years old! Why, he’d be a man grown. As it is, he is still a little boy. I remember,” the grandfather continued, becoming reminiscent, “when he wanted me to buy Aaron. From the very first the two had a fancy for each other. Aaron came from Virginia in a speculator’s caravan. He became so unmanageable that he had to be sold. Little Crotchet begged me to buy him, but I stood joking with the little fellow, and before I knew it our neighbor across the creek had bought him.”

“Old Mr. Gossett?” inquired Buster John.

“Yes,” replied the grandfather. “Mr. Gossett bought Aaron. Little Crotchet was so distressed about it that I offered Mr. Gossett half as much more for Aaron than he had given. But he refused it. Then I offered him twice as much, and he refused that, and I didn’t feel able to give any more.”

“Why wouldn’t Mr. Gossett sell Aaron?” asked Buster John. “I’ve heard he’s very fond of money.”

“He’s a queer man,” responded the grandfather, “hard in some things and clever enough in others. He had heard the speculator say that Aaron was a very dangerous character, and so Mr. Gossett declared that he was going to tame him. Gossett was a much younger man then than he is now, and about as reckless as any one in the county. I remember he said something in a light way that made Little Crotchet angry, and the lad spurred the Gray Pony at him and would have rode him down but for me.”

“Was he riding the Gray Pony, grandfather?” asked Buster John.

“Yes,” replied the old gentleman with a sigh: “yes, the Gray Pony. It was fifteen years ago, but it seems but yesterday.”

The grandfather was silent after that, and the children said no more. They went to bed when bedtime came, but not before Buster John had made up his mind to rise bright and early the next morning and call on the Gray Pony. He told Sweetest Susan and Drusilla of his plan, and they said they were anxious to go, too. So it was arranged that the housemaid should wake them when she came in from the quarters.

This was done, and to the surprise of everybody whose business it was to be up early, the children sallied forth a little after sunrise. They went into the orchard, hunting for the Gray Pony. Before they had gone far, a rabbit jumped up right at their feet, ran off a little distance, and then sat up and looked at them.

“He’s very much like Mr. Rabbit,” said Sweetest Susan.

“He’s lots better lookin’,” remarked Drusilla, who had never forgiven Mr. Rabbit for mistaking her for the Tar Baby.

While they were standing there looking at the rabbit, Sweetest Susan lifted her hands suddenly and uttered an exclamation that startled Buster John and Drusilla, and sent the rabbit scurrying off through the sedge.

“What is the matter?” asked Buster John.

“Oh, to-day is Sunday!” cried Sweetest Susan.

“Why, of course it is Sunday,” said Buster John. “What of it? Is it any harm to walk through an old peach orchard hunting for a pony?”

A RABBIT JUMPED UP AT THEIR FEET

“No-o-o,” replied Sweetest Susan, hesitatingly.

“What is the matter, then?”

“Nothing. I had forgotten it was Sunday, and just happened to think about it,” Sweetest Susan replied demurely.

Going forward and looking about the orchard, the children soon saw the Gray Pony grazing in a fence corner at the further side. As they went toward him, the Gray Pony saw them and began to move away, backing his ears and showing signs of irritation.

“Leave me alone,” said the Pony. “I don’t want to run through these briars and scratch myself. Go away. I don’t want to see you.”

“Wait,” cried Buster John; “I want to talk to you.”

“Shucks and smutty nubbins!” exclaimed the Pony. “You can hardly talk to yourselves. I don’t want you about me. All you can do is to throw rocks and poke sticks at me through the fence. Go away. I might accidentally hurt you. I wouldn’t be sorry if I did, but they’d send me off to the river place, and I don’t want to go there and get curkle burrs in my mane and tail.”

“But I can talk to you,” persisted Buster John. “I can understand everything you say.”

The Gray Pony tossed his head contemptuously. “Go off—go off. Yonder comes Aaron. The Son of Ben Ali will make you let me alone.”

Sure enough, Aaron was coming along the orchard path with a bucket of bran. Presently he called the Gray Pony. “Come, Gristle, come.”

The Pony kicked up his heels, shook his head, and went galloping toward Aaron as hard as he could go. When the children came up to where the Pony was eating his bran, they found him disputing with Aaron. If the children didn’t know how to talk to him day before yesterday, how could they talk now? That’s what he’d like to know.

“Gristle, listen! If you didn’t have this bran-mash an hour ago, how can you be sticking your nose in it now? That’s what I’d like to know.”

The Pony snorted so hard that he blew the wet bran all around. “How did they learn to talk to us?” he asked.

“They have been touched,” replied Aaron.

“Well,” said the Gray Pony, “that changes things. That alters the case. I’m sorry I abused them. But that boy there hasn’t been very good to me. I’ve seen no boy like Little Crotchet. I saw them riding the black stallion yesterday. How was that?”

“Haven’t I told you, Gristle? They have been touched. They have the sign.”

“I see,” responded the Gray Pony. “That changes things. That alters the case. But what do they want with me?”

“They can answer for themselves, Gristle. They are here.”

“Why, we wanted you to tell us about the time when my Uncle Crotchet asked grandfather to buy Uncle Aaron.”

The Pony drew away from the bucket of wet bran and looked at the children. Then he looked at Aaron. “Well!” he snorted, “how did they know?”

Aaron laughed and pointed toward the big house. “They heard it there, from the White-haired Master. They are our friends, Gristle. They know the sign.”

“That alters the case,” said the Gray Pony for the third time, “but the story is a long one. To-day is the day when you get in the carriage and go where the talking-man lives. I used to carry the Little Master there, one day in every week, from the time he could ride.”

“He means to preaching,” explained Aaron, and the explanation made the children laugh.

“Come to-morrow,” said the Gray Pony; “then everybody will be at work, and we shall have no one to bother us.”

Aaron thought that this was a good idea, and at his suggestion, the children agreed to it, though not with a very good grace. To-morrow seemed to be so far off.

But time rolled away on the plantation as it did elsewhere, and some time during the night, when the children were fast asleep, and snoring, maybe, to-morrow became to-day. After breakfast, when they had gone over their lessons with their grandfather, who taught them, to amuse himself, they went out and found the Gray Pony, carrying him some green corn.

THEY CARRIED HIM SOME GREEN CORN

“Now, I like that,” said the Pony switching his tail vigorously. “I’ve had a bad taste in my mouth all day, and this green corn will drive it away.” He munched at it a little while, looking at the children occasionally, and then began:

“I was very fond of the Little Master from the first. The White-haired Master found me in a drove of mules and horses in a pen in town. We had traveled hundreds of miles, and though I was young and tough, I was very stiff and tired. But the drover cracked his whip, separated me from the rest, and ran me into a corner of the pen, where I stood trembling, because I didn’t know what moment the lash would crack on my back, as it had cracked many times before. The White-haired Master—his hair was as gray as mine even then—held the Little Master in his arms, and when they came near I stood still and allowed the little fellow to pat my back and stroke my neck. The Little Master cried: ‘Father buy him! I like him!’

“That was enough. A negro came and put a halter on me, and led me from the pen. Soon some one brought a bridle, and then a small saddle. After awhile the Little Master was placed on my back, and some one handed him two heavy sticks. I was alarmed at first, fearing I was to be beaten with them, but when I flinched the Little Master stroked my neck, and I had no more fear. The sticks he carried along to help him over the ground when he was not riding, and he used them nimbly.

“So we came home, and grew to know each other. In cold weather I had a warm stable to rest in, and a heavy blanket to sleep under. In pleasant weather I had cool water twice a day, and young corn and green barley. People used to say he rode me too hard at times, but it was not so. It was a pleasure to him and no harm to me.

“One day there came to him from far away a teacher—a young man with brown hair and blue eyes—and for a time the Little Master was troubled. He had no desire to sit in the house for hours and do nothing but read in the books. I used to watch for him through the fence, and he was very proud indeed when he found that I knew his voice from the rest and would follow him about without bridle or halter. I missed him when the teacher came, and I used to go to the fence and call him.

“But I missed him only a day or two. The teacher was a wise young man, and he soon saw that if the Little Master was to be taught at all, the teaching must go on in the open air, with no more books to bother with than he could carry in one hand. So it came to pass that every day the little master would call for me, and then we would go on long journeys through the woods and fields, the teacher walking with me.

“Sometimes the teacher would carry books in his hand, but he carried more in his head. He was wise. He knew the poisonous plants and vines almost as well as I did, and I used to wonder how he found them out, not having to eat them. This went on whenever the weather was pleasant, and I heard the teacher from far away say to the little master that he was learning a great deal more of the things that were in the books, than if he were shut up in a tight room with the books themselves. If I could have remembered all I heard, I’d be pretty well educated myself.

“One morning I was fed early. I heard the negroes say that the White-haired Master, the Little Master, and the teacher were going to town. It was court week, they said. The judge and jury were going to sit and punish men for being meaner than the animals. I thought it was very funny. But I ate my breakfast with a better appetite, because I knew none of my kith and kin were to be hauled up before the judge and jury for cheating and swindling, and drinking and gambling.

“So we went to town, the Little Master and I. The White-haired Master and the teacher rode in the buggy. We kept with them a little way, but the weather was fine and the roads were good, and after a while the Little Master gave me the rein, which I had been asking for ever so long, and I cantered forward, leaving the buggy far behind and out of sight.

“I cantered on in this way, up hill and down hill—for it was as easy as walking—until we came nearly to the town. Then suddenly the Little Master reached forward and touched me on the shoulder. It was the way he had of warning me. We were coming to a point where another road led into ours, and it was well the Little Master warned me when he did. Else, when I saw what I did, I should have given a start that would have unseated him; for right before me, coming slowly our road, was a train of huge wagons, covered with white cloth. There were five wagons, each pulled by two mules. In front of the foremost wagon a file of negroes was marching, two by two. There must have been forty odd in all. At first I thought they were pulling the wagon, for there was a stout rope reaching from the end of the wagon tongue to the foremost negro of the file, and the end was fastened to his waist. On each side of this rope the other negroes walked, and I soon saw that every one was handcuffed to the rope.

THE SLAVE TRAIN

“The sight of all this,” said the gray pony, continuing his story, “surprised me so that I stopped in the road, and came near tucking tail and running back the way I came. But the Little Master was never afraid of anything. He stroked my shoulder and scolded me, too, and urged me forward. Now there was nothing about this wagon train to frighten me. I had seen wagon trains before. But this one loomed up so suddenly and unexpectedly that it made me have a queer, shivery feeling, as when I hear a horse-fly zooning around and don’t know where he is going to light. It happened that the wagons were on a sandy level, and neither their wheels nor the mules’ feet made any noise. The negroes were marching along as silently as the shadows that run on the ground when the moon is shining and the clouds are flying. It was the first time I had ever seen negroes going along the road together in utter silence. They were neither talking nor laughing, and they seemed to be very far from singing.

“Going nearer, I saw that the negro drivers were chained to the wagons. On each side of the file of marching negroes rode a white man, a shotgun lying across his lap. I thought the negroes were prisoners, and that the men were carrying them to court for the judge and jury to sit on them. So the Little Master thought, for he urged me forward until we came up with the man who rode near the tall negro at the head of the file.

“‘Good-morning,’ said the Little Master to the man.

“‘Good-day, sonny,’ replied the man, but he kept his eye on the negro at the head of the file.

“‘Whose negroes are these?’ the Little Master asked.

“‘Mine,’ said the man, smacking his lips over it; ‘every one mine.’

“Then we went on in silence. The Little Master had a way, when he was puzzled, of reaching over the saddle and twisting a wisp of mane between his fingers. He did this now. He curled the wisp of hair on his forefinger and uncurled it ever so many times, as we went on in silence. I noticed that the negro at the head of the file had his arms tied at the elbows. The whole weight of the long rope, which was a big one, fell on this negro, but he was tall and strong and moved forward without sign of distress.

“Presently the Little Master spoke to the man again. ‘What have your negroes done that they should be carried to jail?’

“The man laughed loudly, as he replied: ‘I’m not carrying them to jail. They are for sale.’

“‘Then you are a negro speculator,’ said the Little Master.

“‘That’s what some people call me, sonny; speculator or what not, I have negroes for sale. If you want to buy one, I’ll sell you that buck at the head of the gang. He’s the finest of the lot, but I’ll sell him cheap. He’s worse than a tiger.’

“The Little Master urged me forward until we came to the side of the man at the head of the file. That was my first sight of the Son of Ben Ali. I knew at once that he was no negro. The Little Master spoke to him, and he smiled as he answered.