Faithfully Yours,

La Salle Corbell Pickett.

Jan 17 1917

WHAT HAPPENED
TO ME

BY
LaSALLE CORBELL PICKETT
(MRS. GEN. GEORGE E. PICKETT)

AUTHOR OF
Pickett and His Men; Literary Hearthstones of Dixie;
Bugles of Gettysburg; Heart of a Soldier;
Across My Path; "In de Miz" Series;
Folk Lore Stories, ETC.

NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1917

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BRENTANO'S

Dedicated to
Selma Lewisohn

In my garden a lily grew, blossoming in snowy purity, fragrant sweetness and stately grace. It held the summer in its golden heart and the love of the angels crowned its radiant petals. It bade me "good-morning" and the dawn was bright with promise. It waved a caress to me in the soft winds of the Junetide noon and the day was filled with light and love. It shone in mystic silver through the moonlight and my night was aglow with dreams.

Thus a Lily-Soul blooms in the garden of my life to make it glad with the glory and fragrance of her blossoming. Many hearts are happy because of the flowers of Love and Hope and Faith which she has planted. Many a life which in its early dawn held little promise of good has grown into usefulness and beauty in the brightness that the Lily-Soul has given of her own loveliness to light the dim pathway.

In cloudy days the whiteness of the Lily-Soul has shone like a star through my darkness and the sunlight in her golden heart has illumined the black veil of sorrow.

La Salle Corbell Pickett.

October 1, 1916.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

I "OUT OF THE EVERYWHERE"

There are some events with which we have become so familiar by report that we can scarcely believe they did not happen within our own recollection. Thus it is with my advent into earthly existence.

Not long before the time at which I was expected to arrive in this vale of thorns and flowers my father's only brother was seriously ill. It became necessary for my father to accompany him to Philadelphia to consult an eminent surgeon.

For months it had been definitely settled that I was to be a boy, for all was grist that came to my father's mill. No shadow of a doubt of my manhood clouded the family mind. My health had been drunk at the clubs and in the homes, and especially at the neighborhood functions, the fox hunts, and the name of Thomas La Salle had already been given me. "L'homme propose et Dieu surprend," and so did I, for, most unexpectedly, I made my arrival in the middle of the night, the middle of the week, the middle of the month, almost the middle of the year, near the middle of the century, and in the middle of a hail-storm. Confident that I was a boy, the family had all hoped that I would be considerate enough to postpone my coming at least until my father's return, but with perverse discourtesy and want of filial regard, I would not wait. Of course, there was no one ready to receive me.

I have borne the blame for this untimely début, but it was really the fault of the barn which, in the early part of the evening, had caught fire and been burned to the ground. The excitement had passed and the sleep of exhaustion that follows disrupting events had settled over all when again there was confusion; this time owing to my inconsiderate haste to present myself. The keys to the stable door could not be found. There was no time to hunt for them, so the hinges were pried off and Fannie Kemble, the fleetest and safest horse in the stable, was hurriedly called from her dreams. My young uncle, afterwards a gallant Confederate officer, Colonel J. J. Phillips, was routed out and, barefoot and mounted upon the horse without saddle or bridle, rode post haste for our family physician, treasuring the grievance to reproach me with in after years when I would give evidence of a too impetuous disposition. In my eagerness to fly to the ills I knew not of, I would not await the arrival of the medical man and, spurning his assistance, defying them all, made my "ingress into life, naked and bare."

"Why didn't you wait for me, you impertinent little rascal?" inquired the Doctor. "What's your hurry? You are too enterprising for so young a lad."

"Lordy, Lordy, Marse Doctor," interposed my mammy tragically, "he ain't no boy-chile. It's a po' li'l gal-chile."

"A girl? Why! Damn him!" exclaimed the Doctor in astonishment and dismay. Thus my first greeting upon arriving on the earth was one of profanely expressed disapproval.

A wail of woe indescribable went up from all around. My poor, disappointed, heart-broken mother turned her face to the wall.

"Come 'long to yo' mammy, honey. She ain't gwine to 'sert you ef you is a gal-chile, po' l'il lamb! You can't he'p yo' calamity no mo' dan we-all kin. Mammy knows hit's terrible. En yo' pa, he gwine cuss eb'y last nigger on de plantation 'bout hit. I wonder what dey gwine name you, for Tommy ain't no gal's name. Dey can't call you atter none er yo' gran'pas now, nuther. I suttinly is sorry, but dar ain't nuttin' so bad dat hit couldn't be wusser, en you mouter been twins—gal twins! Po' li'l thing! Den I know you'd hyer ole Bringer bark." (Ole Bringer was the "ha'nt dog.") "Lordy! Lordy! I wonder who gwine tell yo' pa. I reckon de Doctor better bre'k hit to him, kase de preacher is gone souf to cure his th'oat. Dar, dar, honey, mammy's most th'oo. She gwine drap some warm catnip tea down yo' th'oat now. Dar, dar, go sleepityby!"

Thus early in my career my mammy comforted me, as the old mammies always comforted us "white chilluns."

Several days later my father returned and hurried to my mother. After blessing and kissing her he said proudly:

"Now, little mother, papa wants to see his little man. Where is he?"

In those days the nearest telegraph station was a long distance from our plantation home and there had been no opportunity of informing my father of the misfortune that had befallen the family.

A burst of tears answered him.

"My God! My wife! My boy is not—not dead!"

"Oh, my darling, it's worse than that!"

"Worse! He is not deformed!"

"I can't tell you! I—I couldn't help it."

"Where is he?"

"In there," pointing to the room that had been arranged for a nursery.

Mammy Charity, who had been eaves-dropping, was almost knocked over as my father suddenly opened the door upon her and excitedly cried:

"Let me see my boy, mammy!"

"Marse Dae, please, suh, fergib us all, but—de boy is a gal."

I opened my eyes which, alas! were crossed, to give and receive a blessing.

"A cross-eyed girl!" he exclaimed. "How did it happen?"

"I dunno, Marse Dae, how de po' boy happened to be a gal. I 'clare it wuz none of we-all's doin's, but I reckon de reason she's cross-eyed is her bein' born lak she was in de middle of de week a lookin' bofe ways for Sunday."

Thus was I blessed by physician, mother and father. In a few weeks the eyes uncrossed of themselves, but they are still looking both ways for Sunday—which never comes.

Three weeks later, when my grandmother made her second visit to me, her first grandchild, finding that I had developed into a very colic-y, and consequently, fretful child, a disturber of sleep and peace, she offered to take me back home with her, a proposition which was eagerly accepted. The "settin'-aig-basket" was sent for and I was comfortably and cosily placed in it and put into the foot of her rockaway. Pery, the driver, was cautioned to be "keerful of de ruts en de jolts; not to go to sleep nor to step 'pon dat chile, en don't you drap her out; ef you do she'll ha'nt you as long as you lib."

It was a beautiful day in June. The air was laden with perfume and song. Not that I knew it at the time—cuddled up in my "settin'-aig-basket"—but I have credible information on the subject, furnished later, with all the rest of the details of that most important, though unconscious, period of my earthly career. Every little while my grandmother would peep into the basket to see that all was well. Everybody we met stopped to ask after the "new-born baby" and, being informed of its presence in the "settin'-aig-basket," requested to make its acquaintance sans ceremonie, Pery taking advantage of the introduction to hop out of the rockaway and gather great green honeysuckles and honeysuckle blossoms, which he put into the basket until it looked as if filled with honeysuckles and their blooms, that being the best tribute he could offer to the little new "missis."

At Sandy Bottom, the dismal grave of many a trusting heart, where the frog croaks his never-ceasing croon, Uncle Frenigike came out from "Free-nigger-town" to borrow "a chew of terbacker" and beg a "ninepence to buy de ole man a plug." Recognizing the "settin'-aig-basket" he said:

"Lordy, Mistis, can't you give de ole man a settin' of dem aigs. We-all's ole domernicker is jest gwine to settin'."

Being informed of the contents of the basket, he asked to be allowed to see "de li'l gal baby."

"Lord, Lord! Jes' look at dem li'l fis'es," he exclaimed. "Dey's bofe shet up jest as tight ez wax. Dat chile sho' gwine to be one stingy white woman when she grows up ef you-all don't scrouge dem dar li'l fis'es open en put sumpn 'twixt 'em."

Suiting the action to the word, he worked his own black forefinger within my little soft baby clasp, then suddenly but gently withdrawing it asked:

"Ain't she got nare rabbit foot, Mistis? She ain't! De-Lord-sakes-alive! Po' li'l misfortunate thing—agwine on fo' weeks ole en ain't never had a rabbit's foot! Well, she shan't be widout one no longer. No, dat she shan't. She shall have a rabbit's foot dis ve'y minute. Yas'm, I got a fresh one in my snake-skin bag I kilt wid my two-time (double-barrel) gun last Chuesday jest 'fo' sundown en jest ez hit wuz gwine lipperty-clip, lipperty-clip, 'cross de briahs over Liza-Malindy's grave. Liza-Malindy, you know, was my fifth wife. I wish hit had been runnin' 'cross one er de men-folkses' graves en dat I had kilt hit of a Friday night 'stead of a Chuesday. Den co'se, dar'd a been a heap mo' luck in hit. But hit's de best I kin do now for de po' li'l thing en hit's a heap better dan havin' no rabbit's foots at all."

Running his hand down into his breeches pocket he pulled out his rattlesnake-skin bag, filled with charms against "hoodoos en cunjers," and selected from the gruesomeness a blood-stained rabbit's foot and, lifting my little clenched fingers one by one, he closed them around it. Thus, perhaps, he saved me from that most loathsome fault, "stinginess," and insured for me, even though the talisman was of a "Chuesday's" killing, sprinting over a woman's instead of a man's briar-grown home, at least a minimum amount of good luck.

But for the superstitious and fascinating tales, silken-woven by the tongue of fancy, and the awesome shadows cast by authenticated tragedies, Sandy Bottom, where I met my sable godfather, Frenigike, and received my first security against ill luck, would have been nothing but an insignificant little valley in the wildwood, crossed by a quiet looking stream. In its dread death-bed, by the side of priests and Indians, fair-haired maidens and dark-eyed savages, sleep the wife and children and servants of an English nobleman. The infant child, because of its appealing helplessness, alone was saved, while the great strong horses and the coach with its freight of human lives, gold and silver and jewels, were swallowed by the treacherous quicksand.

This tragedy occurred in the year 1799, when Sir Henry Clinton formed the plan of humbling the pride and destroying the resources of Virginia. He sent a powerful fleet to Hampton Roads and landed a force under General Mathews to advance and perfect this project. General Mathews took possession of Norfolk and Portsmouth and the surrounding country, burning Suffolk and committing depredations everywhere. The family of an English nobleman, frightened by the devastation, fled for safety to a point on the Nansemond where a part of the English fleet was lying in waiting. Passing Sandy Bottom the driver stopped to water his horses. He was urging them farther up stream where the water was deeper and clearer, when a runaway negro named Isaac sprang from the bank, shrieking out a warning of the terrible quicksand. His warning being disregarded, he snatched the sleeping baby from the nurse's arms, saying:

"Dis po' li'l chile can't he'p itse'f en I gwine to sabe it anyhow fum bein' gulched down dat quicksandy debil's th'oat, ef de yuthers won't be sabed."

Before the last echo had followed the negro's words—before the frightened child could catch breath for another shriek—carriage, horses, driver, footmen, maids, children and mistress were all sucked in by the dark water. A few bubbles here and there were the only sign of its treachery. The horrified riders had followed so close that the dash of their horses' feet splashed the water simultaneously on the screaming child and over the swirling waves which marked the fatal spot of its mother's doom.

As a reward for his warning and for saving the life of the child, Isaac, the negro, was given his liberty and a home—the first of his race ever set free in Virginia—and was thereafter impressively distinguished by the (to those of his own color) opprobrious epithet of "Free-Negro-Isaac." This name was soon jargoned into Frenigike, and afterward, through culture and prosperity, into Freeling, the present family name of the descendants of Frenigike. The old place near Sandy Bottom is still called Free-Nigger-Town.

Past this spot of gruesome history I was borne in the unconsciousness of infancy through the little village of Chuckatuck and beyond until the carriage drew up at my grandmother's door and Uncle Charles, her foreman, came out with the little negroes running after him to welcome us.

II THE FIRST PRAYER

Still cuddled among the honeysuckles in the basket I was carefully lifted from the carriage.

"Please, Marm, Mistis, lemme carry de settin'-aig-basket in to Mammy Dilsey," pleaded Pery, the driver, who had taken great pride in giving me my first ride and covering me over with his cherished honeysuckle blossoms.

"Mammy's gwine to be so s'prised she'll want to knock me down. En I's gwine to look solemn en mousterious en hand her de basket en say, ''Tain't no use er yo' settin' dese yer aigs, Mammy Dilsey, for dey's already done en hatched out!' I know now jes' what she's gwine answer back. She gwine say, 'Don't you come hyer wid none o' yo' projickin', you pizen-fryin'-size-limb-er-Satan, you. Ef you does I'll smack you slab-sided into de middle of next winter!' Den I gwine say, 'Well, look for yo'se'f, Mammy Dilsey.'"

My grandmother, who not only liked to humor her servants but enjoyed the anticipated surprise he was going to give Mammy Dilsey, granted Pery's request and I was carried in and put upon Mammy's bed and the rehearsed conversation followed. Mammy Dilsey would have been more vigorous in her denunciation of that "fryin'-size" with his "lyin' en projickin'" if her eyes had not at that moment rested on my grandmother, to whom she appealed to "help her to save dat lyin'-limb-of-a-nigger fum perditionment."

"Look for yourself, Mammy Dilsey, before condemning Pery to perdition," suggested my grandmother.

Mammy looked and seeing only my leafy and blossoming cover, ejaculated scornfully:

"Aigs? Dey's honeysuckles en flowers. Dat nigga's tryin' to fool me!"

In lifting my honeysuckle blanket she pulled out my sugar rag. This loss combined with the cessation of the soothing motion of the rockaway caused me to make my presence and my grievances known by wail after wail, verifying Pery's truthfulness as to something having hatched out.

"Land sakes!" cried Mammy Dilsey. "Fo' God!—Fo' God! Well, you-all sho' ought to be ridic'lous at yo'se'fs—a humblementin' a po' li'l he'pless baby en insecatin' her lak dis! Did you-all have no pillows nor no laps to fotch de po' li'l lamb home 'pon widout puttin' her in a settin'-aig-basket? How you-all know dat some misforchunement ain't gwine to come 'count er projickin' wid her lak dat? De chile mout crow, or she mout cackle, or she mout take her arms for wings en flop 'em, or she mout peck, or eat wu'ms, or walk wid her toes stuck in'ards. She eben mout have fedders. De Lord's ways is mousterious. He don't do nuttin' out of de reg'lar Hisse'f, en you-all is done sumpn not only out of de reg'lar but onnatural, a puttin' a baby in a settin'-aig-basket. De po' li'l thing cries, too, lak 'twas starved to deaf. I s'pose Miss Lizzie didn't have no milk en maybe dat was de reason you fotch it long back wid you so dat Sis Sereny could nuss her; her twinzes bein' most de same age."

At this moment the door opened and Aunt Serena, who had already been notified of her coming duties, appeared, carrying on each arm a baby as black as the ace of spades. Without a word she laid both the babies down on Mammy Dilsey's bed and, taking me in her loving, motherly arms, set my table, and I, half starved, ravenously showed my appreciation and enjoyed my first meal at the expense of my little foster sisters, who had just been awakened by my screams.

The news of my strange arrival had spread and the whole plantation assembled to see their "young missis," crowding around in reverential admiration, while I went off into a peaceful sleep, smiling anon in that sleep, as the warm-hearted loyal negroes, from the oldest to the youngest, leaned over to look at and bless me, "old missus'es" first grandchild.

"Lord! Lord! Is dat we-alls li'l missis?" asked Uncle Charles, taking off his hat, pulling his forelock and scraping his foot as reverentially to me as if I had been a little princess. "Is dat Miss Lizzie's chile? Niggers, you-all hyer dat? Take off your hats en bow en cutchy, ebby last one er you, for dis is yo' Miss Lizzie's chile en mistisses' gran'chile, de young missis dat de Lord is done en sont down to earth for us to take a intrus' in, to work for, en to teach manners to, en to send to school. Come along now, let us all kneel down en 'semble ourse'fs in praher en concentrate our li'l missis to de bressed Lord; all 'cept'n' Sis Sereny; she's holdin' de li'l missis, so she kin set.

"Oh, Lord, de Father of de fatherless, dat letteth not a sparrow fall to de groun' widout Dy knowledge en counts de very hairs upon dar heads; disremember dis Dy he'pless chile, who has been fotch to us dis day th'oo trials en triberlations in a settin'-aig-basket. I beseech De, oh Lord, to watch over her, clothe her in raiment en vestures en feed her on manna en lead her li'l foots into de straight en narrer paths to de glory of Dy righteousness. Harken up her voice to sing Dy praises en lift up her han's to do Dy wu'k en keep her in Dy holy keepin'. Oh, Lord, bress dis our li'l baby for de sake of Dy own en Miss Mary's li'l baby, li'l Marse Jesus, amen."

"Git up fum off yo' knees now, niggers, en go 'long en tend to yo' business. You-all got dem dar cows to git up en milk, en de hogs is to be fed, en de hawsses to be curried, en you, Sis Sereny, you better wrop de baby up now en carry her along to de Gre't House, en Sis Dilsey, you better look after things. Ole-Granny-Aggie, you better git to bed."

The cradle was brought down from the garret and emptied of its loyal little toys. It had belonged to the twin-brother of the uncle who took the midnight ride to help me across the dark waters. While it was being arranged for my occupancy a cry of dismay went up from Ole-Granny-Aggie, who had disobeyed Uncle Charles and followed me in.

"Don't put dat chile in dat cradle! What you thinkin' 'bout? Marse Jasper's twin done en die in dat cradle, en all de rabbits' foots in de worl' ain't gwine charm away de ha'nts en keep off de ebil eye ef you puts her in dat cradle to sleep. Put dem dar li'l toys all back ag'in en tek de cradle back to de garret en pull outn de trunnel bed. De cat's been a tryin' to steal hit for hern, en cats does p'int de way. You sho' is tryin' to see how much triberlation en bad luck you kin fotch down 'pon dis chile's haid, fotchin' her home of a Friday in de small of de moon in a settin'-aig-basket, mekin' her drink her first drink fum a stranger's cup in a stranger's house wid undrinkin' strangers a lookin' on while she unbeknown to it all is a drinkin'. I's glad I flung de dish-water on de dog—a howlin' jest as Uncle Charles was a prayin', en you-all know what a howlin' dog means."

The superstitions were heeded, the little toys were all lovingly replaced in the cradle and returned to the garret and I was put to sleep in the little trundle bed where my grandfather and great-grandfather and mother and uncles and aunts had slept when the cradle and crib had grown too small and they were not yet old enough for a tester-bed.

Aunt Serena was moved from the "quarters" and ensconced in one of the garret rooms of the "Gre't House." She was provided with a supply of new clothing, which delighted her, and was placed upon a special diet, which she resented, preferring her bacon and greens, "pot-liquor" and "corn-meal-dumplin's" to the daintier food prescribed.

Her little twins, my foster sisters, Mary-Frances and Arabella, were placed in the care of the "orphan tenders," Mammy Dilsey and Ole-Granny-Aggie, the latter claiming to be more than a hundred years old. A cow was set aside for the especial use of the twins, who soon learned that the tinkle of the cow-bells meant for them a banquet of rich warm milk.

For awhile they were brought up twice a day to the "Gre't House" to see "dar Mammy" and sometimes were permitted to partake of the crumbs that fell from the "rich baby's table," which crumbs they soon disdainfully refused, showing their preference for the libations of "Spotty Sookey," that being the name of their barnyard cow.

III CHURCH VISITORS

My grandmother's old colonial home, Holiday's Point, so-called because of the many holidays that my grandfather had been accustomed to give his servants, was on the Nansemond River, in Nansemond County.

The county came into existence in 1639, being first called Upper Norfolk. Its name was soon changed to Nansemum, spelled by Captain John Smith "Nansemond." The Dismal Swamp extends along its edge. Its county-seat is Suffolk, the burning of which I, as a child, have often heard described by Ole-Granny-Aggie, an eye-witness, while we would listen with bated breath, hair on end and nerves aquiver.

"No, chillun," she would say, "jedgment day ain't agwine to be no mo' tur'ble to 'sperience dan de burnin' of we-all's county-town by dem furrin Britishers was, en de niggers en de white folks ain't agwine to be no skeerder den, needer."

Then she would describe in her picturesque lingo the firing of the barrels of tar, pitch and turpentine which had been brought from the Dismal Swamp and placed upon the wharf awaiting shipping. The flames carried by a strong wind caught the grass of the dry marshes and spread to the town and the surrounding country and, as Granny-Aggie said, "de ma'shes en de river for miles looked and soun' lak one gre't blazin'-kindle-lighted sheet er steadified thunder and lightnin'—de magazines a 'splodin'—de timbers a cracklin'—de barrels of tar, pitch en turkentine a bustin' en splungin' out dar fire—de sparks a flyin' en a lippin' lak de whole fundament had busted wide open en all de stars in de Heabens was a drappin' out, en ev'ybody runnin' lipperty-clip lak dey thunk de Debil was a movin' de Bad Place down to Nansemon'."

Thus my infancy was surrounded by historic tales and the more ancient traditions that had descended from father to son through generations of dusky retainers.

I was the idol of my dear grandmother and her household and many friends. My playmates were the children of the surrounding plantations—the old homes inherited from colonial days. I had never known any other way of living and experienced a shock of surprise on learning that a little new acquaintance did not reside in the home of her ancestors. I asked my grandmother if that little girl was respectable.

"Of course," she replied. "She is a very nice little girl. What makes you ask?"

"Because her pa and ma rent their home. She told me so herself. She can't be respectable."

My grandmother explained to me that though it was pleasant and desirable to live in the house of our fathers, the absence of that comfort did not necessarily place a person "beyond the pale." But I felt at that time that it was grandmother's charity that caused her to set forth that view, for I thought that people who did not live in their own houses could not be respectable.

Two members of my grandmother's household were "nominated" as "church visitors," Mrs. Mary Hutchins, who was deaf, and whose husband, a sea captain, had been lost in a wreck, and Miss Sophia Wilson who, through a vicious parrot, had lost her sight on the eve of her marriage and had, in consequence, been deserted by her fiancé.

There were poorhouses in those days but no homes for aged women and the members of the church took care of their homeless co-workers. As Mrs. Hutchins and Miss Sophia belonged to the old Glebe Church, they were invited as honored guests by fellow-members. Some years earlier the Episcopal Church had become almost extinct in Virginia and the membership was still very small, so that the visits were correspondingly extended. As my grandmother's home was especially pleasant the guests prolonged their stay indefinitely, suddenly falling too ill to be moved if there was any suggestion of their going elsewhere.

Mrs. Hutchins, or "Miss Mary," as we called her, could not hear, but she read the movements of the lips, a circumstance of which Miss Sophia would perversely take advantage by turning away as she spoke, whereupon her friend would thus reproach her:

"Turn your head this way, Sophia Wilson! You don't want me to hear what you are talking about. Begrudging me a little news and I interested in everything, and the Lord knows I haven't a bit of curiosity."

"How do you know what the Lord knows, Mary Hutchins? If you knew half what He knows you wouldn't make so many mistakes. No curiosity, indeed! You're chock full of it. You'd bore a gimlet hole through the earth to see what was on the other side."

"You wouldn't know what was on the other side if there was a tunnel through and somebody shouting it with a fog-horn, and you're so stingy you wouldn't tell me if you did know. Not that it makes any difference; you're not likely to known anything on any side of the earth."

"Humph," was the indignant retort, "if I don't know things why should you be so anxious to see me talk so you could find them out."

"Miss Mary" was saved from the embarrassment of a reply by the timely arrival of my grandmother, who could always apply oil to the waters when they were especially troubled.

A part of my youthful education consisted of the thrilling stories related to me by the captain's faithful relict, whose memory cherished the tales of "moving 'scapes by land and sea" told her in early days by the sailor. Thus I met the man-eaters of the South Seas, shuddered at the gruesome trophies that adorned the persons and huts of the head-hunters of Borneo, beheld the sea-serpent in the rippling waves of the river that flowed below the edge of my grandmother's lawn, and heard many a story of storm and wreck in which the departed sea-captain had performed wonders of skill and bravery.

"Well, Mary Hutchins!" exclaimed Miss Sophia in stern disapproval when I would be lost in rapt attention to these thrilling tales. "What do you mean by putting such notions into that innocent child's head? What do you suppose she will come to when she grows up? A lunatic asylum? Come out of one yourself most likely or you wouldn't get such crazy ideas. Just fancy people wearing other people's heads and hanging them on the wall when they can pick up beautiful shell necklaces right off their own beach and can get wax flowers to put around their houses that look natural and won't ever fade! And as for sea-serpents, you know there never were any."

"Now, Sophia Wilson," Mrs. Hutchins would answer, "the Bible tells us that there are more things in heaven and earth than philosophy ever dreamt of, and we know it's true, and if philosophy can't even dream of the things in heaven and earth, how in the name of common sense are you going to know what's in the waters under the earth? And doesn't it stand to reason that those who go down into the great deep know more about what's in the sea-waves than you do who would be afraid of the wave of a clothes-line on a wash-day?"

In romantic moments Mrs. Hutchins would tell me of the green-haired, flame-eyed, melodious-voiced mermaids that lie in wait to lure unwary seamen to destruction on the rocks, from which danger her sailor had been delivered by the memory of her. Unfortunately, Miss Sophia chanced to be present at one of these sentimental reminiscences.

"You never did have green hair, Mary Hutchins, not even at your prettiest, and that wouldn't be much, and as for flaming eyes, you couldn't scorch a potato, not if your dinner depended on it, and if you ever did sing it must have been worse than a flock of jaybirds. Talk about that old Greek who moved trees when he played! I should think your singing would be enough to make all the woodpiles in Virginia run away. The more you educate that child, Mary Hutchins, the less she knows. The Lord gave her more learning to begin with than she'll ever get from you, and if you go on telling her such trash she'll forget all she ever did know. I heard you yesterday telling her about the ghosts of the children of Israel that keep on crossing the Red Sea. Now I want you to know, Mary Hutchins, that when those Jews crossed the Red Sea once they were on the other side for good and they don't go on walking through that water as if the Lord had nothing to do but take care of them every time they chose to go wading. There is such a thing as trusting the Lord once too often, and the folks that know Him as well as the children of Israel did aren't going to take risks like that on Him. First thing you know you'll have that child seeing ghosts, and you know well enough that people who see ghosts aren't ever likely to see anything that's worth looking at."

I was often troubled in my mind between a confidence in "Miss Mary," which I wished to preserve unshaken, and the force of Miss Sophia's arguments.

The germ of pathos latent in my undeveloped mind was fostered by the story of Miss Sophia's lost vision, which ran thus:

She was visiting at the home of a friend who owned a parrot of unusual brightness of mind and independence of character. Its mistress had a little wooden whistle like those you may recall having seen rural schoolboys whittle out and use for the production of music somewhat shrill in tone but well adapted to please the taste of the juvenile artist. The lady would whistle to the bird, which would answer her in tones that obviously fell short of its ambition. The mistress had a whistle like her own made for the parrot who, marvelous to relate, acquired a high degree of skill in its use and was proud of the achievement.

Once when Miss Sophia's fiancé called she wished to entertain him with a display of the bird's accomplishments. Putting her friend's whistle to her lips she approached the cage. The parrot, apparently angry with the usurper for daring to assume the character of its mistress, darted its beak through the wires and plucked out one of the interloper's eyes. From overwork or sympathy the other eye lost its sight. The lover's affection failed before the test of a blind sweetheart and he found a more fortunate lady.

This story was told me as a lesson in refraining from meddling with the possessions of other people. In combination with "Meddlesome Matty" in my school reader it led me to extreme care in avoiding too great familiarity with things that did not belong to me.

I was fascinated not only by the tragic story but by the click-clack of Miss Sophia's teeth falling out of place as she told it to me. She had purchased them by the sacrifice of her collection of gold dollars, the gifts of friends through many years. The extravagance and vanity of this purchase furnished another subject of dispute with "Miss Mary," who was a thrifty soul and pious as well.

"Sophia Wilson," she said, "if the Lord had intended you to have teeth all your life wouldn't He have given you a set that would have lasted to your dying day?"

Miss Sophia retorted with spirit:

"If He wanted me to go without teeth because the ones He made turned out badly, why do you suppose He put people into the world that were smart enough to make new ones? Just answer me that!"

The question being wholly unanswerable, the conversation lapsed.

I found relief from the depression produced by the tragic reminiscences confided to me by going out into the sunlight on the grass-carpeted lawn and walking under the pink and white canopy of the blossoming althea bushes, or Rose of Sharon, as the flowering plant was sometimes called. The negroes had named the althea the "toothbrush tree" because they broke twigs from it and chewed the ends of the tough fiber into brushes softer than the finest hair brush and used them for cleaning their teeth. "Miss Rose Sharon she first started it," they said. "She was a fairy and lived in the tree and the pink and white blossoms are the smile of her pretty face." I thought the fairy magic in the "tooth-brush tree" was what kept the teeth of the negroes so dazzlingly white, and we children always made our toothbrushes of the same material, hoping to achieve a like result.

On the plantation were some "Story Trees," or "Ghost Trees," as the negroes called them. On their trunks were patches of white and gray moss, like fragments of thin veils. Each of the splotches bore a warning or a legend brought by the spirits and written there. The trees were centuries old and held the ancient Bible stories recorded before the alphabet was invented, when the art of reading was among the undiscovered things, and not even the earliest picture-writing had been evolved. It was only the most important messages that the Lord would permit to be confided to the old trees. Some of the spirit records had broken lines and the servants said that the angel's wing was broken as he brought the message down. There was a deep and fearsome scar on one of the "ghost trees" which indicated a tragedy, past or to come, and I used to gaze upon it with awesome wonder, trying to read its dread meaning.

A few years later a great tragedy came and the blackness of it shrouded our whole nation, but whether that was what the old tree prophecy meant I know not.

IV MY SOLDIER

Everyone has a point of beginning—a period back of which life, to present consciousness, was not. For me this point stands out vividly in memory.

I was staying with my grandmother, for since she took me home in the "settin'-aig-basket," she had lovingly asserted her claim. My time was divided between the two homes, hers and my father's. My tall handsome father and my beautiful little mother sat on the front veranda, my brother Thomas playing near them on the grass. It was in cherry time and I saw "Uncle Charles" coming up the slope carrying a forked stick on which hung a great cluster of black-heart cherries edged with bright red ones that he had gathered for them to take home.

Suddenly my attention was diverted from the cherries to a horse pounding down the lane and stopping at the gate, where a barefoot boy tumbled off. He had ridden bareback, with plow-hames for a bridle, as if the horse had been hastily taken from the field.

"Come quick as you can, please, ma'am!" cried the boy. "Mrs. Pitt is dying!"

The rockaway was drawn to the door by old Starlight, my grandmother took her seat within, and I watched Pery driving off, following them with my eyes to the end of the lane, where they were lost to view in the highway.

Poor Mrs. Pitt left four children to be apportioned among the members of her church, little Sara falling to my grandmother's care. The next morning my old mammy broke this news to me, ending with:

"Well, I sposin' it's all right, but de li'l gal don't b'long to de quality, en how de Pitts come to membership in de silk-stockin' Chu'ch is beyonst me."

My mammy's idea of the Episcopal Church dated from the days when its members were noted for ornamentation in dress, and to her it was always "de silk-stockin' Chu'ch." The lack of silken qualifications did not lessen her determination to do her duty by the little girl who, in her opinion, was so frail that she was doomed to an early death. In her desire to fulfill her obligations mammy exhorted me to "ack lak a sister-in-law to her, as you can't ack lak a sho' 'nough bloodified sister." She expressed her opinion that it was not for nothing that she had been dreaming about snakes and about wasps building their nests in the beehives and made gloomy predictions of "haunts" and spirits that would prowl around and creep through the keyholes because of this unfortunate child. Warned by my wondering eyes that she was trespassing on forbidden ground, she stopped short, saying:

"G'long, honey, and play wid yo' new French chany set. I done talk to myself 'twel I got a mis'ry in my haid."

The privilege of playing with my dear little set of imported china was granted only when I had been particularly good or some one else particularly indiscreet.

That evening little "Sary Lizbef" came. She was a shy, frail, bow-legged child, with sandy hair, pale blue eyes, and warts on her fingers. I took possession of her, wanting to give her everything I had, happy in my self-abnegation, having a tender feeling for her because of her lack of the vigor possessed by the other children I knew and because there gloomed over me mammy's assertion, "She's 'bleeged to die, anyhow."

One morning Aunt Serena came in to make known to my grandmother her suspicions that the little girl had whooping cough, adding the warning: "So you hyer me, ole Missus, you better stop she and li'l Missus mingulatin' wid one anudder." The diagnosis proving correct, my grandmother stopped our "mingulatin'" by taking me to Old Point Comfort to visit her friend, Mrs. Boykin, a sister of Mr. John Y. Mason. At first I was troubled about my only girl playmate; white girl, I mean, for Mary Frances and Arabella, my little colored foster sisters, had been my maids and playmates all my life and I was strongly attached to them, like a princess dispensing laws and giving them their parts to play in the drama of child-life. Only a Southern child can understand these relations and the sentiments born of them.

The charms of Old Point soon dispelled my grief and I was happy, being a favorite not only with the children but with the older guests, who found me useful in amusing the little ones, to whom I taught the fancy steps I had learned from my dancing-master and the original songs and dances of the negroes on the plantation. Alas! in due course of time I developed whooping cough and was thrust into the gulf of social ostracism. Instead of the accustomed hearty welcome, I was greeted with, "Run away, little girl, my little children cannot play with you now." I was a sensitive child, and this sudden change was like a January freeze in midsummer, but I soon discovered that my mammy's advice, "Ef you kyan't be happy den be happy as you kin be," strictly followed, insured contentment in the long run. She pointed out the advantage of being sociable with myself, in that I should have no interference from others, but warned me to be careful not to play too long at one game or I would surely have "one of dem tur'ble low-sperited spells yo' gramma calls 'on yo' ear,'" the latter phrase being mammy's version of "ennui."

Before I had reached this danger-point fate brought me a companion who more than filled the vacancy left by the defection of my former playmates. I had seen a solitary officer on the sands, reading, or looking at the ships as they came and went, or watching the waves as they dashed to sudden death against the shore. He figured in my imagination as the "Good Prince" in the fairy stories my grandmother told me.

He did not look as tall as the men of my family, but he carried himself so erectly and walked with such soldierly dignity that I was sure that any "Good Prince" might have envied him his stately appearance. I noted that his hair, which hung in shining waves almost to his shoulders, was the same color as my own and I pulled one of my curls around to look at it and make sure of the accuracy of the comparison. Even at that early age I had a liking for dainty hands and feet and I noticed his small feet as he paced the sands and the delicate hand that was raised to his cap in salute to an officer who passed. The grace of his hands was well set off by the cambric ruffles that edged his sleeves. My childish eyes took in the neatness and perfect fit of his attire which set off his distinguished form. I thought him quite the handsomest soldier I had ever seen, and was surprised one day to hear somebody say that he had fought in the Mexican war. It seemed impossible to me. How could anyone so immaculate and so beautiful to look upon have really fought and killed people? I had never been near enough to see his eyes, but imagined that they must be brilliant stars like those to which I said good-night just before I cuddled down to invite sweet dreams.

My attention would probably not have been drawn so particularly to my soldier, for I had already begun to call him my soldier, had he been surrounded by dancing, chattering companions and formed a part of the gay life of Old Point Comfort. I should have observed him only as a brilliant feature of the cruel world that had chosen to condemn me to exile. But in his solitude I felt that we were comrades in sad experience. I knew of only one calamity that could so set apart a human being from his fellow creatures as to bar him from association with his kind. The symptoms were unmistakable and I at once recognized the melancholy officer as a co-victim of whooping cough and gave him the tender pity of one who knew all about his misfortune.

One morning I was skipping along, chattering as usual, inquiring about the little girl whose spiteful tongue had been pulled out by a springbok, asking if the bluejay really did carry tales to the devil, and other queries pertinent to my stage of development, when my grandmother stopped to speak to a friend. I rambled on until I came to a spreading umbrella under which my soldier lay on the sands reading. He was so absorbed in his book that he did not see me till I crawled under the umbrella and looked into his face with, I suppose, all the sympathy that I felt and asked him anxiously if he had the whooping cough, telling him of my mammy's infallible remedy for that malady and assuring him of her willingness to apply it to his case. Then he looked at me, courteously raising his cap and smiling, and I saw that his eyes were gray, shot with changeful lights, twinkling blue with mirthfulness as he gave me a polite good morning. This recalled me to a realization of the demands of good society and I got up and curtsied, wishing him "Good morning" and inquiring concerning his health. He arose and with knightly grace returned my greeting, pointing to a seat for me on the sand, and resumed his own place. Returning to the query with which I had opened the interview he asked why I had taken him for a victim of so juvenile an ailment. I feelingly related my own experience and dwelt upon the oppressive isolation of one so afflicted and said that as he did not associate with other officers nor dance with young ladies and had to swim and read all by himself, as I did, I thought it must be because he was suffering from the same misfortune as that which had deprived me of social pleasures.

He looked at me with a shade of sadness in his face and then I saw that his eyes could be very dark, like the sky sometimes at night when the moon had gone to bed and the stars were only little shimmery specks of light in the darkness piled velvety soft. He told me that he did not have the whooping cough but he had something worse, a broken heart, and he did not like to make others sad with his sorrow.

I had never seen a broken heart, but had some acquaintance with articles that had come to grief in the kitchen and had been restored to pristine wholeness by clever manipulation. I comforted him with the assurance that broken hearts did not signify anything of importance; my mammy could mend them with glue and boil them in milk so you couldn't even see the cracks in them, as she had done with my grandmother's sugar bowl. "How did you break your heart?" I inquired sympathetically. He replied that God broke it when He took from him his loved ones and left him so lonely. In return for his confidence I promised to comfort him for his losses and to be his little girl now and his wife just as soon as I was grown up to be a lady.

He took a ring from his guard-chain and put it on my finger and gave me a tiny gold heart inscribed with "Sally," which had been the name of one of his loved ones, and I crept out from under the umbrella pledged to Lieutenant George E. Pickett of the United States Army. Then and to the end he was my soldier, and always when we were alone I called him "Soldier." I still have the ring and heart, and am indebted for this reminiscence to the little red memorandum book which he gave me years after, when he was General George E. Pickett, of the Confederate Army.

"Come again, little fairy," he said as I was leaving him to the uninterrupted perusal of his book. Just then my grandmother came up, with apologies for my intrusion upon a stranger, and the explanation that my nurse had been sent to the Fort with a note for Lieutenant Pickett, the son of one of her old friends, asking the pleasure of his company to dinner. My new-found friend introduced himself as the officer in question, expressing his pleasure in the meeting and assuring her that my visit had been a charming episode in a monotonous waste of loneliness. I explained:

"I am his little girl now already and am going to be his wife as soon as I am grown up to be a lady."

"Yes, it has all been arranged," he laughed.

From that time loneliness was at an end for me. My soldier had no fear of contagion, assuring me when I asked him if he was too big to have whooping cough that it was a privilege of youth and diminutiveness. We built pine bark yachts and sailboats and steamers and sailed them on the lakes we made by damming up the waves that dashed highest on the shore. The waves of our lakes washed the coasts of every country on the map and our stately ships brought back to us rich cargoes from all the countries of the world. We built forts and garrisoned them with men as brave as those who fell with Leonidas in the great battle of which my soldier told me as we worked. Upon the sea-wall he placed a flag that fluttered defiance to the enemy-ocean as the waves dashed up to our embattled ramparts and rolled back defeated. It was my first introduction to the Star-Spangled Banner and the red and white stripes and star-gemmed sky impressed me as very beautiful. In those days the Stars and Stripes were rarely seen in the Southern States and the flag of Virginia was the only emblem of sovereignty that I had known. My soldier told me the story of the battle-born flag and the eagle that perched upon it amid the smoke of the conflict, the thunder of guns and the lightning of swords.

When I was wearied with the toil incident to our extensive commercial operations and the labors and anxieties of battle we sat upon the sand and he sang to me, playing the accompaniments on his guitar. When I hear those old songs to-day they come to me with the far faint odor of the breezes that swept across the ocean in that long gone time and I hear again the golden notes of that melodious voice mingled with the soft music floating out from the touch of his fingers.

Three years later I saw my soldier again. He had just received his commission as captain and was recruiting his company at Fortress Monroe before sailing for the unknown West. The first real sorrow came to me when I watched the St. Louis, the United States transport, go out to sea with my soldier on board. From her prow floated a flag like that which had waved over the fort we built on the sands in that time when life had lost all its troubles and the sunshine of the heart filled earth and sea and sky with radiance. I felt then as I had not before realized that this was my soldier's flag to which his life was given and to my view the stars in it shone with a new glory.

The St. Louis was bound for Puget Sound where was the new station, Fort Bellingham, which I thought must be farther than the end of the world. Not one ship of our whole great fleet in the olden days had sailed for Puget Sound.

V A KEEPSAKE FOR THE ANGELS

When we went home Uncle Charles came to the wharf to meet us. He was dressed in the clothes left to him by my grandfather's will and, dangling from his watch-chain, glaring at us in bold relief against his black velvet vest, a set of artificial teeth grinned in ghastly manner from their gold settings. In those days artificial teeth were not common, and when Mr. Durkee, a dentist from Connecticut, came into our neighborhood and hung out his sign, all of a certain class who could raise money enough had their teeth taken out and replaced by false ones.

That year when my grandmother asked Uncle Charles what he would like for a Christmas present he chose "a p'ar of dem sto' teef," explaining that his were "moughty nigh wo' out, chawin' 'backer en a gnashin' de mules of a week days en de sinners of a Sundays."

My grandmother reasoned with him on the folly of making the exchange but he had set his heart upon it and she, with her habit of spoiling her servants by indulging them, permitted him to be measured and fitted for his "sto' teef," of which he was so proud that he wore them more for ornament than use, displaying them at all special functions.

As Uncle Charles drove us home he had many confidences to make to my grandmother. The most important was about little Sara Elizabeth.

"Dem blin' en deef chu'ch visitors of we-alls—I don' mean no disrespect to dar reflictions—but dey's spilin' dat li'l Sara 'Lizbef. You knows, dey 'lowed dat gal to play on de spinet of a Sunday mornin's?—En dance chunes, at dat? En dat ain't all; dey 'sputes so wif deyse'fs over her dat it's scan'lous, en dar ain't no gittin' along wid 'em."

Little Sara, the bone of contention between the two, as Uncle Charles said, proved in a fair way to be spoiled. On my return she looked upon me as an intruder, but when she was made to feel that her rights were not to be infringed upon she welcomed me into the old companionship. I took great comfort in her, but often (though I kept the secret in my heart) the unguarded words of my mammy, "dat chile bleeged fer ter die anyhow," occurred to me and made me sorry and afraid, yet I knew not why, for I had no idea of death.

One night I was awakened by the sound of voices and, peeping from under the covers, saw the bald head of our old family physician, Dr. Finney, and the anxious face of my grandmother, who was holding the big brass nursery candlestick. I caught the word "croup." Then their voices were lowered to a whisper as they looked toward my bed. They went out and closed the door and I lay awake a long time thinking, wondering who or what was "croup."

Next morning I awakened long after my usual hour and was told that I must be very quiet for my grandmother had a headache. While my mammy was dressing me she sighed and looked mysteriously wise, and between the fastening of my buttons and the curling of my hair repeated over and over again, "Lord a massy on us! We're here to-day but gone to-morrow!"

As I was tiptoeing down the hall my grandmother called me. She was sitting in her wrapper before a corn-cob fire. Taking me upon her lap and rocking me she tenderly stroked my hair. Mammy, shaking her head, leaned against the mantel and moaned and groaned. I turned away and looked into the crackling fire till presently the beautiful pictures in the burning coals made me break the solemn silence, and I said:

"Look, grandmother! See! A ship of coals loaded with falling stars and Jack-er-my-lanterns—Oh, and see! There is a city of gold! See that old castle tumbling down. See the silver cloud going so fast to the city and white flowers and sunshine all falling down and——"

"Yes, I see, my darling," replied my grandmother, pressing me closely to her.

"I knowed dat chile was gwine to be pestered seein' sperits, but, Mistis, dar p'intedly ain't no occasion of yo 'couragin' her in it lak you is," objected my mammy, throwing on an armful of fresh cobs and destroying my golden glory pictures.

"Now, go along, darling, and eat your breakfast," said my grandmother, "and then you may tell Ole-Granny-Aggie that she may let you go into the weaving room and give you the old cards and some of the waste wool to card, and if you are very good she may let you run the shuttle awhile. Tell her she need not 'toker' off her stent to-day, but just take care of you."

I stopped for a minute and looking up at her said, "And little Sara, too, please, marm?" She shook her head and shivered; then mammy took me away.

It was always enchanting to watch Ole-Granny-Aggie weave, but to be allowed to sit at the loom and slide the shuttle through with my own hands was a special rapture. Yet this day I did not enjoy it, for I felt that something unusual had happened and associated it with my little friend.

The next morning mammy got out my new silk reins and hitched up Mary Frances and Arabella, my "match of blacks," for me to drive, and as we returned after a long race I saw an old gentleman with bent back carrying a beautiful white box into the house.

"Oh, how pretty! What is it for?" I asked my grandmother.

"A little jewel casket, my darling, to hold a keepsake that I am going to send to the angels. There, there; run along now and play."

I went into the garden where our own little bed of white violets was in full bloom, and suddenly remembering with a pang that my little Sara had wanted to gather them all and that I would let her have only what I saw fit she should have, I said, "She shall have every one now," and gathering my apron almost full I ran into the house.

The door of the room which had been closed to me for two days had been accidentally left ajar and, hearing my grandmother's voice, I ran in.

She and poor Miss Sophia and "Miss Mary" and several of the neighbors and servants were standing around that little white casket resting on a table in the center of the room.

"Is the keepsake in it?" I asked.

My grandmother lifted me up and there, sweetly sleeping, was my little Sara Elizabeth. I whispered my wish to put the violets into her lap so that she could see them the first thing when she awakened and know that I was sorry and had brought her both our shares. My grandmother held me while I gently, and with no word, lest I should awaken her, put my violets into her arms so as to "s'prise her when she waked." Then I whispered to my grandmother as she carried me away, "Do angels want little children for keepsakes?"

VI AFRICAN ROYALTY

One of the enchantments of my childhood was the old cabin in the vale at the entrance to the grounds of the mansion house at Holiday's Point, where the gate-keeper, Uncle Bosun Keeling, and his wife, Aunt Charity, lived. I used to run down the cypress-bordered path to the old lodge to hear him tell "dem Bible-tales" and to see Aunt Charity's shining black face surmounted by her flaming red "haid-hankcher," a combination artistic and beautiful. She would take me on her lap and tell the old legends that had come down through generations of dusky story-tellers.

"Yas, honey," she would say, telling me one of the five versions of the origin of her race, "we was all niggers once. Dar wa'n't no white folks at all, 'twel one day de Lord was tekin' a interview of His wu'ks to see ef dey was good, when He tuk notus dat we-all didn't 'preciate what He'd done for us, so He mekt up His mind to come down to de earf en test our lub en gratichude en faif in His holy word en 'vide de sheeps fum de goats. He put on His patum leather boots en beaver hat en tuck His gold-headed cane en come 'long down de golden stairs en th'oo de golden gate, down de golden lane to whar de road forked to come to de ye'th.

"'Twas de springtime of de yeah en de whole face of de ye'th was a bloomin' en a buddin'. De paschers was all green en bescattered wid buttercups en clover blossoms en de cattles on a t'ousan' plains was a grazin' on 'em. De birds was all a singin' chunes, de roses a buddin' en de violets en Johnny-quils en hyercinfs a bloomin', de trees was all white-washed en kivered wid leaves, de grape-wines was a perfumin' up de air, en de orchards was pink en white en green all over. De hens was all a cacklin', en de chickens en ducks en goslin's all a hatchin'. All de ole sheeps had li'l lambs en some of 'em had two, en all de cows was givin' three gallons to de pail.

"De Lord was s'prized hisse'f at de glorification of His handywu'k. He bowed His haid in humble somilichude, en was jest gwine to pray, when He heard sump'n go kerchunk-kerchunk. He drapped His eyes en, lo! dar was a mud-tuckle mekin' for a pond of muddy water. He looked at de tuckle en He looked at de pond. Den He tuk some yeast powders en flung 'em in de pond. Dat 'sturbed de waters, en dey riz en bubbled, riz en bubbled, 'twel dey was as cl'ar as cryslum. Den He blessed de pond en named it de Pool of 'Thesda.

"He went 'long den to de co'tehouse, for 'twuz co'te day en He knowed dem niggers was gwine to be dar ef dey could git dar. En dey was, sho' 'nough. 'Co'se de niggers didn' know de Lord was dar, en ef dey had He was inwisible en dey couldn't see 'Im nohow. But de Lord could see dem, dough, en dey was behavin' scan'lous. Some of 'em was magestricks en constubles en auctioneers; some was swiggin' cider en drams en 'simmon beer. Some was racin' hosses en fightin' chickens or playin' games or whittlin' sticks or swoppin' knives or eatin' hoss-cakes en watermillions. Some was 'sputin' en quarlin' en foughtin' en some was sittin' on dar ham-bones gossickin' 'bout one nuther.

"De Lord's heart suttin'ly was troubled. He spuk out in a loud woice en tole 'em to go to de Pool of 'Thesda en bave darse'fs. Now dem niggers knowed ebby inch of dat groun' en dey knowed dar wan't no Pool of 'Thesda dar; but dem dat lubbed en serbed de Lord en feared His holy name didn' queschify 'bout de pool. Dey went as fars' as dey could en baved darse'fs en dey come out jest as white as ef dey had been libin' in town all dar libes en wearin' sun-bonnets. Dar lub en faif had washed away dar brack skins en mekt 'em white as de blood of de lamb.

"When dey went back to de co'tehouse de yuthers wanted to git obedient den, too, so dey tuck off en run to de pon'. De supples' en de swif'es dey got dar firs' en come out mos' as white as dat firs' passel, sep'n dar eyes en dar hyar en dar eye-brows stayed brack.

"De Chinesers en Injuns en Italyuns en yuther furriners dey sticked dar haids in firs' en unkinked dar hyar, en dey come out 'twix' a brindle en a brown. But dem dar lazy niggers dat didn' lub de Lord stayed at de co'tehouse drinkin' drams en projickin' en cussin' en cyarin' on 'twel 'twas jamby sundown, den dey jest amble darse'fs, sa'nterin' 'long lak dey had de whole day befo' 'em—a singin' chunes en a chawin' terbacker en smokin' dar pipes, en when dey reached de pon' dar wan' no pon' dar. It had all dried up.

"Dey suttinly was one s'prized passel of niggers, for dey'd allus called demse'fs de rambunkshunners en dey couldn't b'lieve dar eyes. Ebby now en den dey come 'cross a li'l moisch place yer en a li'l moisch place dar en dey'd run en pat it wid de palms of dar han's en de soles of dar foots, en dat's all de white dar is 'bout a nigger fum dat day to dis—jest de palms of dar han's en de soles of dar foots."

When Aunt Charity would tell these old legends Uncle Bosun would sit spell bound as if it were the first time he had ever heard them and when she would finish he would shake his head with pride and say:

"My ole woman she sho' kin talk lak a readin' book, en she ain't one er dem kin' dat licks de 'lasses offn yo' bread en den calls you nigger. Needer do she bek de bread en give you de crus', nor eat de meat en give you de hus'. She gives you de white meat ebby time. En she never follows de jay-bird's trade, needer, a carryin' news, en dress—she allus dresses sincerely."

He was a very pious old man, cherishing extreme reverence for the works of God, with small respect for the innovations of man. When Doctor Durkee, the "tooth doctor," appeared in the neighborhood Uncle Bosun's rigid principles arose in opposition. He looked with both scorn and fear upon the glistening teeth that were the pride of Uncle Charles's heart—and plead with him "not to 'courage dat ole doctor in de imitation of de Lord's handy wu'ks, fer he was a back-slider en a robber, en den ag'in don't de Lord say, 'Dou shalt not mek any graven image or lakness of anyt'ing dat is in de heaven above or dat is in de earf beneaf or dat is in de water under de earf,' en dat means yo' teef jest de same as ef de good Lord had specified teef en said, 'Charles 'Rastus Thessalonians, yo' teef is a graven image,' en ain't yo' teef under de earf beneaf?"

"No," said Uncle Charles, "He wouldn' say dat kase my teefs is in my mouf."

This frivolous reasoning was contemptuously set aside by the logical mind of Uncle Bosun, and later when Dr. Durkee committed various thefts and took his departure in undignified haste, my father asked the gate-keeper how he knew that the doctor was a rascal.

"Lor, Marse Dae," he said, "I lives so close to de things dat God made in de woods en on de water dat I kin scent de bad fum de good ev'y time."

Uncle Bosun claimed royal blood, having descended from Uncle Jack, the son of a king, who was brought over from Africa in the last slaveship that deposited its cargo at Old Osborne on the James River. We loved to hear him tell of his royal ancestor.

"Yes, chillun," he would say, "yo' Uncle Jack, my ancestor, was hired out to de oldes' college in de United States, William en Mary, named atter Marse William en Miss Mary from London who give 'em de groun' to build de college on, en de town what 'twas built in was de capital in dem days en was de oldes' corporal town in ole Virginny. De firs' newspaper, too, was printed dar. Yo' Uncle Jack had charge of all de books at de college en dey says ev'y time he'd dus' de books dat Marse Robert Dinsmore give to de college he'd stop en read de adbertisement writ on 'em, 'Ubi Libertas Ibi Patria,' en say to hisse'f, 'I wonder why on earf Marse Robert Dinsmore want to separate dat po' couple for, when he was rich en could a bought Libi en Pat bofe hisse'f 'stead a orderin' de yuther man to buy Libi en sayin' he was gwine to buy Pat.'"

Uncle Bosun told us how the preachers of all denominations, though they were half-starved in those days, had joined together and bought Uncle Jack from his owners and given him his freedom. He was not only good but brave and always spoke his mind without fear, telling the negroes when they would shout at revival meetings that it was scandalous for them to make so much fuss about such a calm and serious thing as religion, that they put him in mind of the little brooks after a rain, soon full, then noisy, roaring and rushing, then just as soon empty again. He asked them to try to be more dignified with their religion and more like the great, broad, deep river, for he said he had noticed that the more ignorant folks were, the more shallow their religion was, and the more noise they made over it, just like the dry and no account leaves, he said, that always make more noise when the wind blows through them than the green ones do.

A rich man, Mr. Haxall, owner of Haxall's mills—the mills that made the only flour in the United States in those days that could be carried across the ocean without spoiling—had, like many gentlemen of that time, a habit of profanity. One day when he was swearing Uncle Jack asked if he wouldn't please, being a rich and mighty man, set an example to the world and quit swearing. Mr. Haxall replied:

"Jack, old man, what for? I'm very well satisfied with myself as I am. I don't know what more I want than I have. In fact, as far as I can see, Jack, I'm just as well off as any of you Christians."

"Jest so, Marser, jest so wid de horgs," said Uncle Jack. "You know, suh, I's often stood en watched 'em rootin' 'mongst de leaves in de woods en findin' as many acorns as dey could pos'bly eat en stuff en I ain't never yet seed one of dem horgs look up to de tree fum whar de acorns drapped."

Mr. Haxall, leaning on his cane, walked up and down the floor and then stopped in front of Uncle Jack and said:

"Well, old man, what you say is all true and after this I am going to look up to the tree."

VII OUR FIRST CURRENCY

Among my childish recollections is an intricate combination of great-grandfathers, white mulberries, gold dollars, a lone eye, guinea eggs, pipes, and bloody massacres, all centering around a visit from my own great-grandfather, Dr. John Phillips, and his friend, Judge John Y. Mason.

"Somebody's comin' down de lane en it's ole Marser, kase I knows him by his high-top gig en his star-face critter," called out a little colored boy, George Washington Cæsar Napoleon Bonaparte, whose keen eyes had caught sight of an approaching gig. "Dar's anudder gemman alongside of him en anudder li'l boy settin' in de foots of de gig."

By the time the visitors were at the gate, heralded by the barking dogs and the little colored children calling "H-y-e-r comes ole Marser, h-y-e-r comes ole Marser!" the whole family had assembled on the veranda to welcome the guests.

The first to alight was a graceful, courtly old man with the bearing of a soldier—my great-grandfather. The artificial eye which had taken the place of one of those provided by Nature was a badge of heroism, reminiscent of the war of 1812. After affectionate greetings from children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, servants and dogs, he held out his hands to his companion and assisted him to alight.

"This," he said, "is my young friend, Judge John Y. Mason, whom you know."

From my great-grandfather's point of view, Judge Mason may have been youthful, but from mine he was of great age, less venerable than his friend and companion only because he lacked the distinguishing title of patriarchal relationship, and looked out upon the world, like ordinary people, through two eyes.

"And this," he said, jumping the little boy out, "is my still younger friend, Ned Drewry, whose family you know."

Then began the unpacking of the gig-box, which we eagerly watched. I remember being especially interested in a bucket of white mulberries and a basket of guinea eggs.

Later, as a reward for reciting "Little Drops of Water," I received a shiny gold dollar, one of the first minted.

When I hear the lament of to-day, that there is no money in poetry, I recall my early lesson to the contrary. My first effort having been so successful I gave "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" as a voluntary, in the mercenary hope that the twinkles, like the drops, might be transmuted into gold. After curtseying to my great-grandfather my thanks for the dollar I ran across the room and, looking inquiringly at Judge Mason, asked:

"Are you anybody's great-grandfather? No, 'course you couldn't be, 'cause you've got two eyes."

As my own great-grandfather was the only relation of that rank whom I had ever seen, it had been borne in upon my mind that a single eye was the distinguishing characteristic of great-grandfathers.

Judge Mason's manner of smoking next attracted my attention. I had never seen a pipe used except by the negroes on the plantation.

"Did you run off and play with the little colored children and not mind your black mammy and learn bad habits when you were a little boy is the reason you smoke pipes now?"

"No," he replied. "I never learned any bad habits from the negroes. They have very few bad habits. All the bad habits I have ever learned were from white people."

Knocking the ashes out of his pipe he said:

"My child, when great-grandfathers were little babies this—" taking out his tobacco-bag and filling his pipe from it—"was the only real money in this country and was of greater value than the kind which you now hold in your little hand."

Then he went on to tell me in words that a child could understand that money debts were not even recoverable. Tobacco debts only were valid, and to sell bad tobacco or pay a debt with it was a crime, precisely as it is now to sell or pay counterfeit money. Tobacco was the currency, and an excess was as injurious as an over-issue of bank paper, depreciating on the market and causing everything to rise in price. Great care was taken to burn bad tobacco, and it was as important to the uniformity of the currency in those days as is now the exclusion of counterfeits. All the viewings, censorships, inspections and regulations of the amount of tobacco to be cultivated by each planter, the quality to be gathered from each plant, the rules prescribed, were as important as the laws of the mint are now.

Judge Mason's tobacco-bag was the next subject of my inquiry.

"'Tisn't cloth-cloth. Is it tobacco-cloth?" I asked. "Did people have tobacco-cloth as well as tobacco-money in those days?"

"No; this is rattlesnake skin. The snake was killed by Charles Lewis, who lived a long time ago in my county, Augusta. The Indians caught him, tied his hands behind him and made him walk two hundred miles. As they were going along a high precipice he broke the cords and jumped down. The Indians followed and he escaped by springing over a fallen tree, landing among the tall weeds. His pursuers did not see him fall and they jumped over both the tree and the man and ran on as fast as they could. Lying there he heard the hissing of a snake and opening his eyes saw a large rattlesnake almost touching him. It moved its rattles and twice they rested upon his ear and neck. He was so numbed with fright that he could not move, luckily for him, for if he had moved a muscle or breathed the snake would have bitten him. Its eyes glared into his and it seemed to think he was dead, and so wriggled away. He picked up a stone and hit it upon the head, killing it, and carried home the rattles and skin and this bag was made from a piece of that skin."

The mother of this Charles Lewis was the beautiful daughter of the Laird of Loch Lyn, and to his father, John Lewis, was accredited the introduction of red clover. The white or wild clover was of indigenous growth and abounded in great plenty, but the red clover was not known until the blood of the red man, shed by the Lewises and their followers, suddenly dyed the trefoil to its sanguinary hue. The Indians fully believed this legend and superstitiously held the red clover sacred. The superstition spread among the settlers and for a long time the milk of a cow that had eaten the blood-stained blossom was believed to be tainted with blood.

Little Ned Drewry, the third occupant of the gig, with a boy's natural indifference to poetic effusion, had slipped away during my "twinkle little star" and was playing "paterroller" with the colored children and the bloodhounds, and my elders began to talk of the man for whom he was named, a victim of the Nat Turner insurrection. I was not usually permitted to hear such gruesome stories, but if they thought of me at all they must have supposed that I was too young to understand or too sleepy to notice. So they told some of the painful incidents connected with the startling episode of 1832, while I leaned back in my chair and drooped my little head. Judge Mason's sister, Mrs. Boykin, my grandmother's friend at Old Point Comfort, had come near being killed in the insurrection. She was saved by her maid, who hid her in a woodpile till the danger was over.

Thus the simple-hearted, modest, unassuming old man sat with his long fig-stem Powhatan clay pipe in his mouth, smoking and talking and making history for a little child who never forgot the stories he told. Judge Mason was given all the honors of his State—ten years a Member of the Virginia Assembly, six years her Representative in Congress, a Judge of the United States Court for Virginia, Secretary of the Navy under President Tyler, Attorney-General and Secretary of the Navy under President Polk, Minister to France in the Pierce administration, one of the three who drew up the Ostend Manifesto—all these he was to the world.

To me he has always remained the gentle-mannered man with sweet face and soft voice who told the old-time stories in my plantation home while all, from the master to the humblest servant and the smallest child, listened with eager attention and delighted hearts. Two years before the opening of the war between the States my grandmother's heart was saddened by the news from Paris of the death of this old friend.

VIII YULETIDE

It was Christmas Eve at Holiday's Point and, in accordance with the custom of generations, the children and grandchildren were gathered in an unbroken circle around the old hearthstone.

In my grandfather's day the neighbors called the old home Holiday's Point because of the numerous holidays given to the servants. The community held that if my grandfather had framed the almanac he would have put into it twice as many days as did the Arabs and Romans, that he might have more holidays to bestow upon his slaves.

The old-fashioned house on the Nansemond River, between Suffolk to the right and Norfolk to the left, was built of brick imported from England. In shape like an L, the four rooms on the first floor were divided by a passage fifteen feet wide; dining-room and library on one side, parlor and chamber on the other. Four large open fireplaces gave warmth and cheerfulness to the corridor. On the first floor of the L was the nursery and above it the children's room, the name of which was never changed because, in relation to the household, its occupants remained children to the end of the chapter, however the years might age them in the view of the outside world.

The house fronted the river, which was concealed by a heavy growth of trees until the door was reached through long lanes of cypress lined with rows of cedar, when a full view of the water for miles was presented. Hidden in the woods was one of the stables, in which old Starlight had her home near enough to the cabin to answer "Ung' Bosun's" whistle.

My mother, as usual, had permitted me to come to Holiday's Point the day before Christmas, the lighting of the Yule Log being one of my greatest joys. Away back in the early dawn of my infantile mind lurked a hazy memory of the time when my little hand had held the candle that lit the old log at the back of the great fireplace. That privilege was no longer mine. Other children had since entered the family circle, and the youngest child on the plantation, whether white or black, was the one always selected to touch off the Yule Log.

Another delightful sensation preliminary to Christmas day at Holiday's Point was the sight of "Uncle Charles" driving up from the river waving a paper above the load of Christmas things and warning us that it contained instructions from Santa Claus that all the contents of the cart should be put away in the storehouse until he should come on Christmas eve, and if anyone should touch any of the boxes or ask questions about what was inside of them all the good things would turn to ashes and sawdust and there would be nothing left when Christmas came, adding, "'Member what Santa Claus did to Miss Cinderelly when she didn't mind him, stayin' out late at night."

Though the awesome paper was only a bill of lading, which Uncle Charles knew very well, believing him we shrank before it in terror. I watched the unloading curiously, and the colored children, huddled together on the quarter-kitchen doorsteps, pulled down each other's heads and whispered mysteriously as the boxes and barrels were taken out and their contents announced. There was the hogshead of New Orleans molasses, with its thick layer of sugar at the bottom, the long peaked loaves of white sugar under their thin blue "fool's-caps," the cases of raisins, dates, figs and tamarinds, barrels of nuts, oranges and crackers, boxes of cheese and, slyly pushed behind them, hampers mysteriously marked "sundries," which we at once associated with the coming visit of Santa Claus himself.

When the rays of the sun were long in the west the cheerful note of the Yule Log was heard. The great hickory log, which had lain on its forked branch support through months of golden sunshine and mellowing rain, was carried in on the shoulder of the strongest negro on the plantation, followed by a rollicking troop of Christmas revelers, white and black, and next year's log was put on the Yule Log fork, which was never left empty.

The Yule Log was laid at the back of the great fireplace and in front of it were piled cobs, chips and kindling wood, known to the plantation servants as "light 'ood," a contraction for "light wood," which was the heart of the pine. It was lit with a wax candle made in the home kitchen by Aunt Dilsey, a candle in which I felt a proprietary interest, having watched with fascinated eyes the process of its manufacture. Aunt Dilsey had let me draw one of the doubled and twisted cotton strands through a tube in the tin mould to form the wick, and I felt like a conquering hero when the end of the string emerged from the point of the tube. There were six of these tubes in Aunt Dilsey's mould, and when they were all provided with wicks she allowed me to thrust through the loops at the top of the mould the little sticks which rested on the frames and held the strands in place. Then she tied the wicks very tightly at the ends. I watched the melted white wax poured into the tubes, feeling as if I were assisting at a magic incantation. The time of greatest excitement was when, after the carefully built structure had stood all night in a cool place to harden, Aunt Dilsey would cut off the knots at the bottom of the tube, take hold of the cross-sticks and pull till six long, beautiful white waxen cylinders would come out, each with a tuft of soft white cotton at the end. Every time I saw them emerge from their cells a separate and distinct miracle seemed to have been wrought. I have yet a pair of these moulds.

One of the candles was lighted and placed in the hand of my little brother, the youngest of the family group. My father guided the tiny hand until the flame formed a cross around which the tongues of fire leaped and caught the log, embracing it lovingly, climbing upward and turning blue and crimson and golden and white and then mingling in a glorified web of color. Myriads of sparkles shot up the old chimney, like Christmas prayers flying heavenward. The crackling of the wood and the fluttering of the flames joined in a Christmas carol for all the world.

Not the smallest fragment of the log must be left over after the twelve-day feast. It had lain seasoning in the sunshine and the starshine, in the rain and in the wind, in the frost and in the dew, in winter cold and summer heat, that it might be well prepared to give itself wholly to the sacrifice. Had a remnant remained in the ashes, disaster would have marked the year until the next Yule Log had removed the ban by entirely disappearing. Virginia had not received, with the traditional heritage, the Old World custom of preserving a fragment of one Yule Log to serve as a lighting torch for the next and to ward off evil demons until Christmas came again. The servants were to have holiday while there was a scrap of it left.

The ashes of the Yule Log were carefully saved apart from the others, as they were of peculiar sacredness. Lye made from them was of magic efficacy in the manufacture of soap, bringing it to a much-desired degree of hardness and excellence. The negroes used the lye to kill evil spirits and free themselves from the sins they had committed during the year.

Old Santa Claus's rack, the "chimbly rack," made of black walnut and handsomely decorated, with nails driven into it on which the stockings were to be hung, was brought in by Uncle Charles and placed above the marble mantelpiece. Over each nail was printed the name of the one for whom it was intended. Aunt Serena brought in the basket of stockings that she had knit of the finest spun cotton or wool and hung them on the nails, singing her Christmas incantation, "Christmas comes but once't a yeah, En ebby las' niggah has his sheah." The loved ones who had gone before were remembered and stockings for them were hung upon the rack. Their gifts were of money to be used in providing Christmas cheer for the unfortunate, the bereaved and the lonely. Thus was the memory of those who had passed beyond kept in grateful hearts.

From the wall above the portrait of my grandfather Underwood, with long hair and velvet-flowered vest and rolls of cravat, looked seriously down. I had never seen him, but my grandmother said that "he believed in God, woman and blood; was proud but not haughty, hospitable, generous, firm and unchangeable in his opinions, quiet and commanding, affectionate, courting responsibilities instead of shirking them."

For weeks all had been busy with preparations. The wood had been cut and piled, the corn gathered, the pigs killed, the mince-meat and souse and fruit cake prepared, the sausage chopped and the hominy beaten, the winter clothes all spun, woven and made. We sat by the fire with rest, peace and wonder in our hearts, cracking nuts and roasting apples, the old silver punch-bowl of apple-toddy steaming on the table, while we listened to stories of olden times and of times that never were. My uncle in his cadet uniform, home for the holidays on furlough from the Virginia Military Institute, told us fascinating tales of soldier-boy life, sending delicious thrills of joy and terror through every nerve.

Presently my black mammy took me in her motherly arms and carried me along the hall through the middle of the house, flanked by doors opening into the living rooms, up the wide stairway into another long corridor bounded by the same number of doors leading into bedrooms all in their Christmas dress of arbor-vitæ, holly and mistletoe. In each of the fireplaces were wood and kindling to be lit when the guests should arrive on the morrow. Into the prettiest and smallest room she carried me and put me into my little eider-downy trundle bed.

The next morning I was awakened by the music of the Christmas horns and the popping of firecrackers. When I had been dressed I was taken to the dining-room, where my grandmother stood by a table whereon was a large bowl of egg-nog from which, with a silver ladle, she was filling glasses for us all, for even the babies in old Virginia were given a taste of egg-nog on Christmas morning.

After breakfast my grandmother went to service and would return with guests who were to come to us after the Christmas sermon in the lavishly decorated village church.

Soon the first carriage rolled into the yard, the coachman proudly flourishing the whip, which he used merely as an insignia of his office. "Dar dey come! Dar dey come! Dar dey come!" We all ran out to welcome the visitors. The carriage doors were opened, the steps folded up on the inside were let down, and the servants called out "Christmus gif', Marse, Christmus gif', Missus," all holding out their hands and clamoring as my uncle emerged from the coach, "I cotch him firs'! I cotch him firs'! I cotch Miss firs', didn' I, Marse?" each claiming the reward, regardless of actual priority in time.

My uncle was immaculate in frock coat and trousers of black broadcloth, new boots, snowy linen front trimmed profusely with ruffles, high collar and stock and shining silk hat. He turned with courtly grace and helped Auntie from the carriage.

Auntie was the wonder of my childhood. I fancied that if I should be very good and learn my lessons perfectly and avoid giving trouble to my elders, and say my prayers and read my Bible at the rate of one chapter every day and five on Sunday maybe the Lord would let me grow up as proper and as smart, but never as religious, as Auntie. In the meantime I liked to stand in remote corners unobserved and imagine that I was forming myself upon her. Her speckless, wrinkleless, swishing new black brocaded silk frock looked as if it had been moulded around her. Her crinoline stood out in a perfectly balanced symmetrical balloon of unapproachable beauty. Her oval face held just the right proportion of pink and white and her mouth was bowed at the temperance curve. Her sharp gray eyes looked into the center of things. She was a strict Methodist, a fierce Whig, an uncompromising moralist.

A little boy was handed out and then a screaming bundle which turned out to be a baby girl.

The carriage was laden with boxes and packages of Christmas gifts—a present for each servant and other articles to be put with our Christmas stockings still hanging on the rack.

From the next carriage my father and mother alighted—my father, always my ideal, tall, stately, erect as an Indian, seemed to me more than usually handsome as he lifted me up to a level with his classic face. His holiday attire, snowy ruffles, rigid stock, black broadcloth and, above all, the flowers of his brocaded vest, were to me an inexhaustible source of delight. My beautiful mother's coal-black hair, without wave or crinkle, was carried plainly from her face and wound in a plaited coil. She was very fair and her cheeks looked as if they had stolen two of the pink roses from the garden of May. Her eyes were like sparkling sapphires. Her black moire-antique dress had wide bishop sleeves, and she wore a white crêpe shawl that, falling back, revealed the square of fine embroidered white thread cambric around her neck, crossing in front to form a V.

When all the family carriages had come a stranger might have wondered if grandmother's house could hold the many who claimed her Yuletide hospitality. We knew that her home was measured by her heart.

My father, the oldest son-in-law, was the first to take down his Christmas stocking from Santa's rack. He was always sure of a knife, a black stock and a silk bandanna, whatever else old Santa might have left for him. His last year's knife was then given to the foreman. We who could not reach so high were held up to take down our stockings.

The plantation servants never failed to offer their tributes of affection to the Master and his family and to receive gifts from them. Among their numerous presents were always a plug of tobacco, a pipe and a bandanna handkerchief for each. All the servants who had been working away from home came back at Christmas and added their gifts to those "w'at Marse Santa had done fotch down de chimbly." Many of my grandmother's servants had been away from the home plantation, being allowed to choose their places of service and to return if they did not find them satisfactory.

Dinner was the great event that followed. Every leaf had been put into the old mahogany table, and another table added at each end. A turkey which had been penned up for weeks to fatten and become tender, stuffed with pecan nuts, lay in delicious brownness on a china platter. Opposite was a roast pig with an orange in its mouth, "kase pigs kin have apples every day, but come Christmus 'course even pigs must have sump'n extra," my mammy explained. On one side of the table was a huge dish of fried oysters, on the other an old Smithfield ham, baked as it could be only by one born to the art. Sweet and sour pickles and preserves, for which Aunt Dilsey was famous, were scattered about among all the vegetables known to a Virginia plantation. On a side table were a saddle of mutton, a round of beef and a bowl of chicken salad. On another table was the dessert—sillibub, tipsy-cake, charlotte-russe, mince-pies, plain cake and fruit cake, to be followed by the plum pudding, flaming with magic fires which must be left to burn out of themselves, lest some of the glow they held in their fiery hearts should fail to be diffused throughout our lives in the coming year. The sideboard glistened with decanters and glasses and great bowls of apple-toddy and egg-nog.

All the good things left were sent to supplement the feast of the servants which they had spent days in preparing. It was spread in the wide old weaving-room, the loom being hidden by decorations of holly and mistletoe. We went in to see their table with its beautiful ornamentations, loaded with goodies, 'possum and sweet potatoes at each end. The 'possums had been caught early and fed in a lavishly hospitable manner, that they might wax fat and juicy for the feast.

After dinner papa and the uncles, followed by the boy friends and cousins, went out to the office in the yard a short distance from the mansion house and soon such mirthful peals issued therefrom that curiosity called us all out and the house was deserted while we sat listening to such stories and jokes as we shall never enjoy again. Then they talked of fox hunts, of the prancing gray and the good old red that had carried them to victory, the music of the horns, the baying of the hounds, the laughing girls, all eager for the brush. Crouched by my grandmother's side, I heard about last year's crops, the condition of the roads, the neighborhood news, the latest styles in collars and stocks, politics, bits of history and appreciations of literature.

At night "Fiddling Jim" was called in, and in the room where the Yule-fire burned there was a dance, opening with the minuet and winding up with the Virginia reel. In all the dances my grandmother joined with a lightness and grace that would have done honor to sixteen. Youth no more than age served as a bar to pleasure, and I danced the Highland fling and other fancy dances.

Then the sandman came by and mammy took me up to my little trundle bed. Half lost between waking and sleeping, I heard the crunching of the snow beneath the tread of horses and the roll of wheels and knew that some of the guests who lived near were returning to their homes. Melodies, dance-songs and the shuffling and pattering of feet, mingled with the thrum of the banjo, bones and fiddle, floated from the negro quarters.

Soon old mammy and her turban, the black faces, the hand-fed lamb, the goats and dogs, the coons and the rabbits, the peacocks' gorgeous big-eyed tails, and long-whiskered Santa Claus, my grandmother, my mothers lovely eyes and the Blessed Babe in the manger, all got mixed up in a tangle of shadows and came sliding between the peeping, twinkling stars on a moonbeam into the room and danced around my trundle bed.

With my tender little heart full of child love and unwavering faith, my wee soul borne on the higher sentiments of adoration, faith and spiritual sympathy, my Christmas dolly clasped close in my arms, my lips wreathed in mysterious smiles, I laughed and—a-n-d—a-n—Christmas was over.

IX GREENBRIER WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS