Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Duplication of each chapter heading on a full page before each chapter has been removed.

“HE HEAR ALL DE SECRETS ER DER CREEPIN’ THINGS”
[p. 8]

DEVIL
TALES

BY
Virginia Frazer Boyle

ILLUSTRATED BY
A. B. FROST

NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS

MCM

Copyright, 1900, by Harper & Brothers:
All rights reserved.

TO
ELLEN

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

The sunlight drifting through an avenue of live-oaks sifts dappled gold upon the well-known gig that has splashed through miles and miles of the waxy “buckshot” mud, and now winds slowly up the driveway to stop before the broad white pillars of the “Big House.”

A dozen little negroes clamor for the lines, and with a friendly nod to them the autocrat of autocrats gives his hand to “Ole Miss,” who is standing at the open door.

“Ole Marse” sits with him in the library below, talking in subdued tones and joining now and again in a familiar julep, brought, at regular intervals, cold and dewy, by the serving man, Cæsar. And “Young Marse,” with his head upon his hand, every nerve strained to its tension, looks idly through the window upon the pulsing life without.

Then a feeble wail sets a pace to hurrying feet and smiling faces as the great bell clangs in the “Quarters” the coming of “Little Marse.”

But hardly second in importance to the arrival of the little lord of the domain is the advent of the Queen of the Nursery, who had been installed from the “Quarters” many days before; for on her capacious bosom the baby head of “Young Marse” had rested, and this, more than likely, is the third generation of her subjects.

The turbaned head is held high and her sway is supreme, for no one can do quite so well for “Baby” when his enemies attack him; her cup and spoon can usually rout the most persistent, and hives and whooping-cough fly ignominiously before her catnip and calimus tea.

The older children, turned over some time ago to the good graces of the second nurse, that “Mammy” might have time to rest, cling about her chair and pull at her skirts, looking with jealous eyes upon the tiny bundle that has usurped the warm nest of her arms, and when at last the little lord consents to sleep, and “Mammy” shoos the flies and draws the bar, the young deposed, of flaxen locks and blue-checked apron, with sleepy eyes borrows the nest a while, regardless of the clamor of the others. “Mammy, tell a tale!”

And “Mammy” tells it; day after day she pours out the wealth of her inheritance, as her kindred, the “Mammies” before her, have done, and these children of children’s children listen with the same unfeigned delight.

But “Baby” is wearing trousers now—has attained to the dignity of being called by his own name, and “Mammy” is back in her cabin again, that Mecca of childish desire, between which and the “Big House” a path is worn by little pilgrims; for if “Mammy” is ailing there are flannels and loaf-sugar to be brought, and there are always ash-cakes to be baked, sweet-potatoes, goobers, chestnuts, or apples to be roasted by “Mammy’s” hearth, and, if nothing else offers, even plain buttermilk off her deal table, drunk from her cracked blue china bowl, tastes better than any other.

Then, after a season, the stone-bruises, stubbed toes, and little cut fingers are gone, and “Mammy’s” roll of old linen, with its familiar turpentine and sugar, are never now disturbed. The bewildering mass of curls that only “Mammy’s” hand could comb without a shower of tears, together with the dainty buttoned pinafores, have faded too, somewhere, for the college days have come and the first love affairs—those strange, all-absorbing passions—and as “Mammy’s” lap, with its smooth white apron and comfortable knees had been the receptacle of all broken dolls and toys, so “Mammy’s” ear is the haven of youthful broken hearts, and the same old stories are tenderly applied for the mending.

But time ripens, and the roof-tree is shaken of its fruit. First in joy and first in sorrow, it is “Mammy” who shrouds the form of “Ole Miss,” and now she looks longingly into the past.

A few short years that seem as days, and “Little Miss” smoothes the folds of “Mammy’s” black silk, “saved against her burying,” and pins, through blinding tears, a white rose above the still heart, and “Mammy’s” daughter, fat and gentle, with “Mammy’s” own soft, crooning voice, takes up the cradle song.

They romped together, these two, beneath the self-same oaks—“Little Miss” and “Mammy’s” daughter—but “Little Miss” now wears a cap (she is “Ole Miss,” too, to some down in the “Quarters”), and the folds of the other’s turban are as full of comfortable dignity as the dusky mother’s were.

“Little Miss,” still sweet and dainty in her dimity, smiles over her netting and slips the beads upon the scarlet threads or sorts her crewels in the shady porch, for at the other end, just out of sight, the old split-bottomed hickory chair resumes its familiar “thump” to the music of a negro voice.

Again it is “the dark of the moon,” and Satan is abroad in the “Quarters,” and the good hoodoo who must beat the devil at his own game is working wonders against him as he “splits the wind.” “Ole Cinder Cat” sits by the hearth nightly, and the “devil’s little fly” buzzes audibly in wondering childish ears.

The same old stories, ever witching, ever new, to the same old chorus—“Tell another, Mammy!”

Another chorus calls to answering silence, for she is gone. The swaying form, crooning in low rich voice, like some bronze Homer blind to letters, a weird primeval lore into the ears of future orators, is shut within the feudal past of the old plantation days, for the brown breast that pillowed its brain and beauty is still forever, and that South too is dead.

The worn split-bottomed chair is empty, filled with dust and years, for it is we who seek to conjure with it now—we who have heard unwitting at that shrine a classic that America may call her own.

OLD CINDER CAT

Solon and Juno had quarrelled. Now a quarrel was not an unusual occurrence in the Quarters, but Solon and Juno had been exemplars of conjugal felicity for nearly eighteen years, and had been held up to their dusky world as patterns to be zealously copied.

This unpleasantness, however, had been brewing for a long time; but hitherto, if one had lost temper, the other had always prudently remembered that they were in the fierce light that beats upon all paragons, and wisely refrained from adding to the flame. But at last there was a culmination behind closed doors, and when Solon and Juno arose at daylight neither had yielded a single point.

The most mortifying part of the whole proceeding to Solon was the fact that he had just “experienced religion,” and this disgraceful thing coming close upon the second week was certainly a most painful “falling from grace,” and he groaned in spirit lest the news should be noised abroad.

Juno, however, had no such qualms of conscience, for, though she went to “meeting” persistently, her service was of the even, regular variety, and as she was never known to shout, and had never “come under conviction,” ’Zorter Blalock, newly come into that fold, took her under especial consideration, and prayed nightly for “dem needer hot, needer cole, les’ dey be spit outen de mouf, O Lord!”

Juno raised no question as to the genuineness of Solon’s religion; but she had her own grievance against him; for in her old age Juno had grown jealous; and at last, from much dwelling upon some recent occurrences simultaneous with Solon’s profession, Juno had become suspicious.

Twice of late Solon had asked for a pass to the adjoining plantation; the last time she knew he had to swim the creek, for the water was up, there was no one at the ferry that time of night, and he couldn’t have taken a mule without waking John, who was most unobliging in such matters. Then, more positive proof than anything else, Solon’s head was very wet when he came in, along towards day, and he was very surly when questioned about it.

“Gittin’ ’ligion go mighty hard wid you, Solon,” said Juno. “Hit keep you outen you’ bed when hones’ folks is all ersleep. You does lack you tryin’ ter lay er ghos’, ’steader gittin’ peace.”

Juno, typical of her race, and particularly of her sex, though possessing no occult gifts of her own, was very superstitious, and, goaded by her suspicions, resolved to make use of the simple means within her reach; so, begging some coffee-grounds of Aunt Susan, the cook at the Big House, she “turned the three cups of her fortune,” for she felt that something was going wrong.

The first and second cups were barren of information, they represented youth, and the grounds did not even “wash.” But the third—ah! she knew it—Solon was deep in mischief, for this was the way it read:

That spot represented herself. There was a cross by it; that represented trouble—no, it did not mean death. That clear space represented water—the cross pointed that way, towards the north. Bowen’s plantation was north: that was where Solon went. Across the water was another cross—trouble again. Beyond the cross was an eagle—that meant luck; but between the cross and the eagle, close to the cross—in fact, an arm of the cross pointed right to it—was a (Juno rubbed her eyes and looked again, then she pulled her brass specs, which she seldom used, down upon her nose and took the cup to the window)—was a woman!

Her hand trembled a little with indecision, then, forgetful of the borrowed cup, she threw it into the grove. So the quarrel had come about without a happy solution of the difficulty, for Solon sullenly but persistently declared his innocence of offence, while Juno as persistently put the question.

Next morning saw the beginning of a series of omens and disasters, showing that some dark power was at work, for, without cause or warning, Juno’s skillet cracked right in two on the fire before the hoe-cake was done; Solon’s rooster stood in the doorway and crowed three times before he could shoo him away; and a chimney-swallow got into the cabin and beat its wings bloody against the wall in its efforts to get out.

A very thoughtful, silent pair joined the hands in the field that morning, for everything seemed to be going wrong. Juno got a “miz’ry in her side” long before noon, and just as the most unsatisfactory day that they had ever spent together was closing, a “cotton-mouth” bit Solon on the heel. Juno ran to kill a chicken to apply to the wound to draw out the poison, for she had more faith in the warm chicken than in Ole Marse’s whiskey, which was plentifully supplied. She did not want to see Solon die with, as she said, “a lie in de mouf”; and, hoping to avert evil, she killed the very rooster that had crowed so inauspiciously early in the morning, thus opening upon her head the vials of Solon’s wrath when he had recovered from his fright.

“Ju! you done los’ you’ head-piece sho’, you fool! Hain’t I done gib up all I got ter git dat dominicker, an’ hain’t got but one, an’ here you go an’ split him up fur er snake-bite lack any common chick’n! I lay I larn you, ole ’oman, if I hatter frail you ever’ day ’twix’ now an’ Chris’mus!”

“An’ I lay, if you does, I’ll up an’ tell ’em in de meetin’ how you done git dat rooster, Solon!”

Then, to the amazement of both, the story of the quarrel got out; the faintest whisper of the midnight was exploited, as it were, upon the house-tops; wagging heads were turned and loosened tongues clattered; and at night Juno quilted in silence, and Solon sought his religious counsellors without comfort.

So the days passed, and Juno could see that Solon was perfectly miserable; but he kept his own counsel, and, despite his vehement protestations, the visits over the creek continued.

Then Solon fell ill of fever and ague. The overseer said that the trouble was malarial, caused by the weekly trips across the bottom, and refused to grant further passes; but it was to Parson Blalock that Solon poured out the burden of his woes.

“I done come ter gib up dat ’ligion. Parson Blalock”; and Solon yawned and shivered in the sunshine, for his chill-time was coming on. “Nebber hab no trouble ner nuffin ail me twel I git hit, an’ here I gwine chillin’ ever’ udder day lack er po’ mizerbul lam’ dat done been drapped too soon. Hit done go too hard wid me, Parson Blalock, an’ I come ter gib hit up!”

“‘’CASE DE HOODOO AM ’ER ’OMAN’”

The ’zorter and ’spounder scratched his head thoughtfully, then laid a bar on the anvil—for Parson Blalock was a blacksmith on weekdays.

“Ter my min’, Brer Solon, you cain’t gib hit up. Once in de fol’, you b’long ter de fol’; you cain’t git out; an’ er-doin’ lack you is now, is how ever’ fol’ done git er black sheep in hit!”

“Hit hain’t struck in deep yit, an’ I hain’t got no use fur dat ’ligion, an’ I want ter let hit go!” moaned Solon.

Parson Blalock had let the iron cool, and, drawing close to Solon, he whispered: “Hit hain’t no ’ligion dat wukin’ on you, Brer Solon; you’s right; you hain’t neber got ernough fur dat! ’Cordin’ ter de signs er de times, ter my min’, hit er hoodoo, an’ you better look out fur her, ’case de hoodoo am er ’oman!”

Solon smiled in a sickly, hopeless way, for the ague was upon him, and turned away in the direction of his cabin. But Juno was not there. Crouching low before the witch-fire of Maum Ysbel, there had been poured into her ears enough of misery to last through a whole cycle, the price of barter having been a coveted china cup.

There was no light in the cabin, save from the blue and green flames that were now dying out, lighting fitfully the features of the toothless, weazened negress who knelt before it, for the only opening was barred by a roughhewn hickory log. On the red coals snake fat and lizard skin, mixed with some strange, ill-odored stuff, were merrily bubbling; and the oracle continued:

“‘Tain’t no use ter try dat cat; hain’t nuffin but Ole Cinder Cat; you’ll fin’ her bloody bones hid out somers. Hain’t nuffin but er hoodoo dat er ridin’ dat cat, des ter ’do’ you wid Solon; but if yo’ wants ter mek sho’, jes ketch her when she dozin’ in de ashes an’ put her in de tar bar’l dar by you’ do’ wid de head druv in, an’ set fire ter hit. If hit Ole Cinder, you’ll fin’ her, ’dout eben her tail scotched, er-grinnin’ in de hot ashes when de fire done die out. If dat happin, den you gotter ketch her ergin—an’ she’s gwinter gib you er putty hard run—an’ ’n’int her hin’ de years wid dis grease; den foller uv her, an’ tek dis bone wid you—whatebber you does, don’ lose dis. If she cross de creek, she gwinter cross by de dry bed, ’case she hain’t gwinter wet her foots lessen she kin hope hit; an’ she gotter go mighty fur way up fur ter git ober dry, so you mought tek sumpen ter eat wid you. Don’ matter how tired you gits, keep er-foll’in’ de cat, an’ es soon es yo’ git on t’uther side, mek er cross an’ spit in hit, den rub you’ eyes wid dis bone, an’ tu’n roun’ free times. Dat ’ll mek de hoodoo gib up de Cinder Cat’s skin, an’ right dar es you tu’n you’ll see de pusson dat been mekin’ all dis here trouble ’twix’ you an’ Solon. You’ll know her when yo’ sees her, but don’ say nuffin ter her but ’Howdy?’ an’ don’ eat nuffin she gib yo’, ’case she mout ’fix’ yo’ lack she do Solon, an’ yo’ cain’t do nuffin yit. Yo’ gotter wait twel de spring, when de sap ’ll git up. Don’ yo’ quoil wid Solon ’twix’ now an’ den; Solon’s er good man; he wouldn’ be no kin ter me if he wa’n’t!—fur he’s des hoodooed an’ hain’t ’sponsible. But soon’s de sap’s riz you git yo’ er good big piece er green grape-vine an’ lay fur de ’oman, an’ hit her wid hit unbeknownst; ’case if she know yo’ arter her, she’ll go er mighty long piece outen her way ter git shet er yo’, fur de grape-vine sho’ brek de charm—hain’t no hoodoo kin mek er stan’ ’gin yo’ if you hit ’em wid er grape-vine when de sap’s up; but be mighty sho’ she’s stan’in’ on her own groun’ when yo’ hits her. If yo’ does what I tells you, gal, dat Solon ’ll come back ter yo’ in er herry, des es meek an’ peaceable es er lam’.”

Be it far from the chronicler of the Scheherazade of the nursery to narrate the marital infelicities of Solon and Juno for the space of nearly a year, but Mammy solemnly declares that the Cinder Cat bore the test of the fiery tar, and sat calmly grinning in the ashes when the flame had died away; and Juno, remembering the admonition, anointed the ears of the cat with Maum Ysbel’s ointment, pleaded illness to the overseer, and, putting the wonderful bone that was to give her superhuman sight into her basket, together with a hoe-cake, she followed Old Cinder Cat.

The cat progressed by many devious ways, giving many an unusual twinge to the rheumatic limbs, for often Juno had to go on hands and knees, scratching and tearing her face as she heard most unholy conversations between the cat and the cold-blooded things that creep and thrive in darkness.

“SHE FOLLOWED OLD CINDER CAT”

But at last the dry bed of the creek was crossed, and, doing as Maum Ysbel had bidden, Juno met face to face the comeliest of yellow girls coming from milking, with her pail upon her head.

“Howdy?” said Juno.

“Howdy?” rejoined the girl, smiling, as she offered Juno a tin cup of the milk.

The temptation was sore, for the rough hoe-cake, eaten in haste without water, had parched her throat; but, remembering the warning, Juno swallowed hard.

“Much obleeged, lady, but I hain’t got time”; and, breathless and bleeding from her scratches, Juno hurried back to report to Maum Ysbel.

But the depth of winter was upon the land; it would be many a day before vegetation would wake; and Juno, with consuming patience, bore the vagaries of Solon until the leaves were born. Twice, in despair, Juno had tapped the grape-vine, and twice the sap had failed to flow, but the last straw was broken in this wise:

There was to be a break-down in the Quarters, to celebrate the breaking of some new ground on the river-side, that had been deadened some two years before, and, in accordance with Ole Marse’s custom, the laborers were permitted to invite the negroes upon the adjoining plantation. It was to be a great event, and Juno was preparing for the same with great interest, for even flesh and age could not bare as neat a pair of heels as hers for certain intricate shuffles, when, all of a sudden, Solon declared his intention of not attending. Such a thing had not been known to happen in the whole course of Solon’s existence. For two days before the break-down he claimed that he was sick, and took all of Juno’s nauseous concoctions without a murmur. Then he besought Juno not to go to the dance. It was devil trickery, he said, and it was very hard on him, as he was trying to keep his religion that he had gotten so painfully, and the devil would be sure to follow her home. He proposed that Juno should remain quietly in the cabin as usual on the night of the break-down, as an example to the weaker “professors,” while he thought it might do him good to pay a dutiful visit to his old “daddy” across the river—for Old Marse owned on both sides.

But though Juno physicked her spouse faithfully, she rebelled against such imposition.

“Um! Ober de ribber you gwine? I lay you’ daddy hain’t gwine lay eyes on yo’ fur dis day two weeks. Gittin’ mighty anxious ’bout you’ daddy all uv er suddent! I’se gwine ter de bre’k-down. I hain’t pestered wid you’ ’ligion. Hain’t nuffin de matter wid Juno’s head ner her heels, sho’ mun!”

But Juno’s heart was not as light as she made it appear, for she had fretted through a whole winter and a late spring, and after a restless night she again invoked the aid of Maum Ysbel.

“I hain’t got nuffin ter pay yo’ wid, Maumer, but I’se dat miserbul I hatter come,” said Juno with a sigh.

The hag ceased stirring the contents of the little pot, and setting it off on the hearth to cool, she drew her wrinkled face into many more wrinkles, and took an inventory of Juno from head to foot.

“Yas, yo’ is, honey—yas, yo’ is!” and as she grinned, her solitary tooth was visible in her glee. “De coat yo’ got on am powerful ole an’ fady, an’ dat ap’un hain’t no ’count; yo’ gotter wash hit mighty easy fur ter w’ar hit one mo’ time; but yo’ got you’ moon year-bobs!”

Juno winced, for those big brass ear-rings were the pride of her heart; twice her lobes had been pulled through with the weight of them, but there was always room for another piercing.

The old woman leered and nodded. “Yo’ got you’ moon year-bobs, an’ my Becky’s Sairey been cryin’ uv her eyes out fur ’em ebber sence she seed ’em!”

“But, Maumer—” expostulated Juno.

“Don’ yo’ ’Maumer’ me!” said the old woman, crossly. “What you come here ter me fur if hit hain’t ter fetch dem bobs ter Sairey? Hain’t I seed yo’ in de coals, ’way ’cross de fiel’, ’fore yo’ lef’ de cabin, mek up you’ min’ ter fotch dem year-bobs ter Sairey fur what I gwine tole yo’? What I tells yo’ worf er heap ter yo’, but hit nuffin ter me. Solon hain’t my ole man!”

Juno was sick at heart. She had given up the blue-edged china cup to save Solon, but the big moon ear-rings were the wealth of her whole life.

The hoodoo threw a chip at a great toad that was napping in an old shoe beside the hearth, and, shaking the ashes from her pipe, she refilled it from her pocket. “Hain’t nuffin ter ole Ysbel, gal—her day done ober; she don’ claim no man, dead ner libin’! But I done tole yo’ ’bout dat yaller gal, hain’t I? Yo’ done seed her wid you’ own eyes, hain’t yo’? An’ I done tole yo’ how ter git shet uv her. Hain’t my keerin’, but if yo’ don’ wanter know no mo’ ’bout her, yo’ des tote dem moon year-bobs back home wid yo’!”

Slowly the rings were removed from Juno’s ears, and the old woman, with a leer, popped them into her capacious pocket before resuming her professional attitude.

“Um! um! wall, de sap be up by ter-night, an’ ter-morrer yo’ play sick an’ cross de ribber, ’case yo’ gotter whup her on her own groun’. Yo’ cain’t tech her on you’ own, no matter what happin, ’case she kin ’do’ yo’ den, an’ she’s de bestes’ hoodoo in dis kentry, ’ceptin’ ole Ysbel, fur all dat she’s on’y er gal. Don’ yo’ say nuffin ter-night at de bre’k-down, ner do nuffin, but yo’ gwine ter see sights, if you does what I tells yo’. Mek lack ter Solon dat yo’ hain’t gwine sho’ ’nough, dat yo’ ailin’ er sumpen, an’ let him gin out dat he gwine ter see his daddy. Yo’ lay low twel yo’ hears dem fiddles des er-talkin’ in de middle er de night, des ’fore dey sarve de supper; den yo’ tek you’ foot in you’ han’ an’ git down dar; but don’ yo’ go in, an’ don’ yo’ do nuffin den, fur hoodoo ’oman hain’t lack odder ’oman, an’ you cain’t git eben wid ’em de same way; but wait twel hit bre’k up, den cut you’ grape-vine, an’ den yo’ ’ll run ’gin sumpen in de dark; hit Ole Cinder Cat. All yo’ hatter do is ter foller uv her, ’case I’se fixed her so’s she gotter sarve yo’; an’ den when yo’ sees what yo’ lookin’ fur, lay de grape-vine on, quick an’ fas’, ’case hain’t nuffin ail Solon but dat yaller hoodoo!”

It was turning twelve when Old Cinder Cat rose from the hearth, and, stretching herself, bounded through the doorway. Juno woke with a start.

“Um! Juno better be gwine too. Mighty fine business fur her ter be in, long er hoodoos an’ Ole Cinder, but she sho’ gwine wid ’em dis time, mun!”

The squeak of the old fiddle under Pompey’s fingers, mingled with the even patting, was wafted through the open door. Juno looked at the height of the moon.

“Hit’s turned midnight now, an’ I’m erg-wine.”

But she first sought the grape-vine by the spring. The bright moonlight flooded everything as with the light of day, and, carefully cutting the vine between certain joints, according to the formula of Maum Ysbel, Juno hid it beneath her skirt, and took the little path towards the sounds of midnight gayety.

“THE CHARM WAS FOREVER BROKEN, AND THE COMELY HOODOO KNEW IT”

The barn was radiant with tallow dips that winked and sputtered through the decorations of pine boughs like gorgeous fire-flies. A dance was in progress. The men were ranged in one line, the women in another; at a certain point they met and joined hands. But, arrayed in gorgeous apparel different from the others, a great red paper flower nodding in her hair, her white teeth shining between parted lips, the leader of the dance was the comely yellow girl whom Juno had seen before, and her delighted partner was none other than the prodigal Solon himself. Juno’s fingers instinctively sought the grape-vine for another purpose than that indicated by Maum Ysbel, but, clinching her hands, she withdrew into the outside shadows again, and the Cinder Cat suddenly rubbed against her dress and purred.

Solon danced like one possessed, regardless of time or tune, always keeping his eyes fixed upon the nodding crimson flower; and the yellow girl, with lips drawn tight over the white teeth, watched him with the eyes of possession.

Then, as he sank upon a bench, exhausted, for Solon was none of the youngest, the voice of an elder whispered in his ear: “Better g’long home ter de ole ’oman! We’ll hab you up in de chu’ch fur dis!”

The watching eyes in the darkness were burning like coals of fire, but Solon pulled loose from the detaining hand. “What I keer ’bout gwine home ter de ole ’oman? What I keer ’bout bein’ fotched up? I ’ain’ bothered!”

And, despite his age, in every dance Solon led, with the smiling face and crimson flower beside him. Others changed partners, but Solon’s was always the same.

Now the candles had burned out, the few that remained were guttering and flickering, and then there was one last dance, in which a madness seemed to seize Solon, and as he whirled he drew from his pocket a long string of blue glass beads and threw them around the yellow hoodoo’s neck. The watching eyes in the darkness glowed with passion, for Solon’s gift was Juno’s sole remaining ornament, now that the moon ear-rings had been bartered.

“Lemme hol’ on ter myse’f tight, O Lord!” she groaned. “Des fur er little while!” And again the Cinder Cat brushed her skirts and purred.

“I gwine foller you in er minit, Cinder! I gwine follow you!”

The silence that was golden lay upon Juno’s lips, and it was a repentant Solon who came to her next night, for the Cinder Cat was gone forever from the hearth, the charm was forever broken, and the comely hoodoo knew it.

Shamefacedly and ill at ease, Solon lolled and smoked, but, still preserving her silence, Juno prepared a sumptuous supper for her prodigal.

After they had eaten she threw a crimson paper flower, ragged and dirty, upon his knee, and, drawing her chair close, she lighted her pipe from his, for she knew that her woes were ended.

“A KINGDOM FOR MICAJAH”

“So you want your freedom, Micajah?”

The negro who had shambled up to the broad veranda dropped his eyes and shuffled uneasily, for there was a world of wonderment and kindliness in the master’s tone.

“And this is the meaning of all the devilment I’ve heard of lately—all this talking among the negroes?”

“I reckon so, sar.”

“At your age, Micajah, when you’ve been a self-respecting negro all your life, to go cutting up and making mischief among the other negroes because you want your freedom—that’s a fine way to get it! Haven’t you always gotten all you asked for? If you wanted freedom, why didn’t you come and ask for it?”

The master lifted his glasses to his forehead and looked reproachfully into the queer black face before him.

“Didn’t ’low, Ole Marse, as how you’d gib hit ter me,” said the negro, humbly, but persistently.

Judge Naylor looked from the rose-twined piazza across the spacious lawn, under whose oaks his own father had romped, and beyond whose limits had joyously hunted with another Micajah, as small and as black as the one before him. He had never dreamed of freedom. Was this the innate craving of the human for something higher, or only a reflection of an external picture? The Judge resolved upon an experiment.

“You are mistaken,” said the Judge, gravely, as he knocked the ash from his pipe. “I will give it to you. And what sort of freedom is it that you want, Micajah?”

The old slave scratched his head and swayed uncomfortably.

“Why, des freedom, Ole Marse.”

“What kind of freedom, Micajah? What is it that you want? Speak out, for I am going to give you your freedom for a whole month, and you shall have all that you want to go with it,” added the Judge.

Uncle Cage gasped. The enormity of the idea was too much for him.

“And here were Ole Marse des er-talkin’ ’bout hit lack hit were er chaw er terbaccy—des es easy an’ quiet lack,” said Micajah, afterwards, in confidence.

“Well,” queried the Judge, “what do you want as a free nigger, Micajah?”

Micajah scraped the dust with his foot; twice he made a little mound of it with his toes and twice smoothed it out.

“I don’t wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse. I des wants freedom.”

“Well, go on; don’t be afraid; you shall have what you want.”

Cage’s eyes sparkled, and at last his tongue was loosened.

“I don’ wanter work none, Ole Marse. I wants ter hear dat horn blow at five in de mornin’, an’ I wants ter git up, mad lack, an’ holler outen de winder, ’You derned ole raskil, what you wake me up dis time er day fur?’ Den I wants ter fling my boot-jack at him, an’ go on back ter sleep, I does. Um, um—an’ when de ole ’oman ’low, ’Cage, yo’ git up an’ make dat fire,’ I wants ter ’low back ter her, ’I hain’t er-makin’ fires fur niggers,’ an’ I wants ter go back ter sleep, I does—fur, Ole Marse”—here Cage bent closer and almost whispered—“I wants my freedom fum de ole ’oman too, den, an’ I don’t want her ter git freedom, nohow.”

“All right. Anything else to go with your freedom, Micajah?”

All timidity and sullenness were forgotten, and Micajah’s face was radiant.

“I don’ wanter hope do dat cl’arin’, Ole Marse, down by de ribber, an’ when de niggers is er-sweatin’ an’ er-workin’, I wants ter be takin’ er my ease. Um, um—an’ I wants some clo’se, white folks’ clo’se; an’, Ole Marse, I wants er book lack yo’ got in de house.”

“A book? When did you learn to read, Micajah?”

“Lord! Ole Marse, ole Cage cain’t read; he des want ter tote hit roun’ lack yo’ does.”

“You shall have it,” said the master, heartily. “Now what else?”

“I wants er little nigger, er little nigger, Ole Marse.” Here Micajah scratched his head thoughtfully. “None er mine, ner none on dis side er de ribber, but er little nigger dat ain’ know me ’fore I git freedom—dat ain’ see me work. An’ I wants dat little nigger ter foller me ever’whar I goes, er-totin’ er palm-leaf fan, an’ I wants him ter fan dese foots when I sets down er lays down, an’ I wants ter holler at him when he ain’ move fas’ ernough, an’ cuss him when he move too fas’, but I wants him ter keep er-foll’in’ wid de palm-leaf fan.”

Micajah, from sheer ecstasy of contemplation, paused.

“But I don’ wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse, lack Free Joe and Yaller Pete, ’case they hain’t nuffin but des niggers, ’douten er marster, errer home, ner nuffin; dey don’ eben know whar dey git dey nex’ sumpen ter eat fum; but I des wants ter taste freedom.”

“Very well, Micajah; you shall begin to taste it at once, and I hope that it will do you good. You need not go to the field to-morrow, and you can pick out your little negro from over the river this afternoon. Cindy will give you my old broadcloth—you can roll up the legs and sleeves if they are too long—and I will not forget the book; and, mind, if anybody asks you to do a lick of work for a whole month, you send them to me.”

The plantation work went on smoothly without Micajah’s presence, much to the disgust of Milly, his wife, who had been reprimanded more than once for berating Cage about his trifling ways. Micajah got his little nigger from over the river—one who had never seen him before, and who was as thoroughly abject and respectful as even Cage could wish; so the latter’s joy knew no bounds, and he was rapidly demonstrating, to his master’s great amusement, the close kinship of the tyrant and the slave.

Micajah’s freedom was a matter of wonderment to the negroes as he looked upon them at their work for a moment with a supercilious air, and made some dignified remark, with his book held carelessly under his arm, “perzackly lack Ole Marse,” Cage gleefully congratulated himself—for Cage was wonderfully changed, changed to befit his new condition; and as he turned, followed by the bearer of the palm-leaf fan, many were the envious glances cast.

Such ease, such glory, such a blended dream of shade, watermelons, and cob pipes smoked undisturbed, varied by the unspeakable delight of “cussin’” and yelling at the little negro!

“PERZACKLY LIKE OLE MARSE”

But even this Arcadia had its shadow, for Cage had never had the ecstasy of flinging a boot-jack at his little slave. Boots and their accompaniment had been part of the requirements which his master had provided, with the promise that the jack could be flung if the boots were worn; but Cage had been an unshod child of nature, for in that equable climate a foot-covering at any season of the year was only a matter of effect, and the exquisite agony of the pegged cowskins was more than he could bear, even with his freedom; so, by her master’s direction, boots and jack were carried triumphantly back to the plantation store by Milly, who was more than happy to thus pluck one feather from the wing of freedom.

Milly in these last few days seriously questioned within herself the wisdom of Old Marse’s experiment, for it had very much upset the domestic equilibrium; but Milly was a philosopher too, in an humble way, and under the existing circumstances she resolved to make an experiment also, the issue of which she was more certain of than Ole Marse was of his.

“Think I gwine hab Cage layin’ roun’ here in de shade er w’arin’ er broadclorf ever’ day—an’ Ole Marse ain’ do dat—an’ er-settin’ up he ole foots ter be fanned lack dey was sumpen, an’ dey es big es all out-doo’s, an’ he er-pesterin’ me ’bout he fried chicken fur dinner lack he were white—an’ dey sen’ hit ter him, too. My Lord! Um—Ole Marse done los’ he head ter ’low dat; but I hain’t los’ mine, sho mun, and I gwine git eben wid Cage. Talkin’ ’bout freedom dis an’ freedom dat, an’ erlowin’ dat hit sumpen dat Milly cain’t git. Um—if hit make er body es low-down an’ es triflin’ es Cage be, I lay I don’ want hit!”

But it was glorious to be envied—a field-hand envied even by the house-negroes. So Micajah buried his bare feet in the dust when impressing a crowd, and rose in the dignity of his broadcloth. He was a king, though even for a day, and no ancestor by the far banks of the Congo ever ruled more royally.

He was abused behind his back, but the fruits of the earth were brought to his cabin. The horn blew in the morning, but Micajah turned over for another nap. Milly put the buttermilk on the table, but Cage had coffee from the big house; and at last freedom had grown so great that Micajah declared that Milly should stand while he was served—that a free man could not sit at table with a slave, even though she was his wife.

Then Milly rose in wrath, and laid two crossed sticks tied with hair in the chimney lock, but held her peace. Micajah shivered; ruefully he regretted his boldness, for the dignity of the free man could not overcome the superstition of the slave, and he had known Milly’s work of old. Alas for Micajah! In the splendor of his broadcloth and the deliciousness of freedom he had forgotten to transfer his own hoodoo—it was even then reposing in the pocket of the discarded blue-check trousers—and Milly’s charm would work!

The clearing down by the river was progressing. It was a kind of extra work, and a barn dance and barbecue had been promised in the Quarters when the task should be completed. So it was even pleasure, this sweating and hard labor, with the pot of gold, as it were, at the end; and, with the “whoraw” in the Quarters attending each morning’s departure, the spirit of habit even tempted Uncle Cage to join, for it was getting lonesome with nobody but the little nigger—not even Milly in the cabin to lord it over—and the laborers were too busy to listen to him if he went idle-handed to the clearing; but he was a free man, and freedom did not stoop to such without necessity.

But latterly the monarchy was not nearly so absolute as it had been; the negroes were not half so envious. Too much familiarity and boasting were breeding contempt, and though Milly was more than welcome among them, they looked at him askance whenever he sought to join in their recreations.

Growing bolder, they quizzed his little “nig” about him, to the former’s utter demoralization, poking fun at the bare feet and broadcloth; and one of the smart house-negroes disrespectfully propounded a conundrum, in effect, “If all work an’ no play make Cage er dull nigger, what do all play make him?” Milly’s brother, a field-hand, had actually shouted out, “A big fool nigger!” at which Cage and his fan-bearer walked away in dignified silence. But the fan-bearer was far from satisfactory; there was that in his manner which betokened sullenness rather than the awe with which he was at first infused; and though he habitually dodged, it was rather from the fear of the missile than of the man. There was even a symptom of rebellion, which Micajah, finding the arts of civilization deficient, promptly put down by threatening to hoodoo him with a ’gater.

The imp was quelled for a few days, and during that time he spent all the spare moments when Cage was asleep in the careful examination of his legs and arms for the first indication of the ’gater, guardedly holding his breath to feel an internal or external wiggle; but, as no signs appeared, he turned a pirouette on his great toe and whispered to the watermelons in the patch that “Marse ’Cajah wa’n’t nuffin but er nigger man, arter all.”

But something had surely gone wrong with Micajah’s fortunes. Was Milly’s charm working? There it lay in the chimney lock, and Cage dared not touch it. “I knows she put hit dar fur me ’case I mek her so mad ’bout stan’in’ when I eats, an’ now she won’t set down when I axes her; an’ if hit air workin’—my Lord! den I’m done fur!” moaned Cage.

So the Big-house coffee was not half as delicious as it had been, and Cage took to praising Milly’s buttermilk, sharing her side meat, and he courteously left her a piece of fried chicken on one occasion; but Milly would not touch it.

Then, after one sleepless night in which the crown of freedom pressed more heavily upon the monarch’s brow, Micajah sought his master, leaving the bearer of the fan sobbing in the cabin from a reprimand more vigorous than pleasant. The Judge was preparing to ride, and he smiled upon the forlorn figure of Micajah.

“Well, Micajah,” said he, flecking the head of a zinnia with his whip, “have you thought of something else to go with freedom?” Micajah studied his bare toes sheepishly, then covered them with dust.

“Naw, Ole Marse.”

The Judge drew nearer. “Are you sick, Micajah?”

“Naw, Ole Marse.”

“Then what do you want? Don’t stand there all day like a dolt.”

Micajah hesitated; something seemed to clog his throat, and he cleared it.

“I thought maybe, Ole Marse—I thought es how de time mought be up, an’ I come ter gib up de freedom and de book.”

“What? Are you tired already? Why, it is not half up. Go on and have a good time, Micajah.”

“‘GO ON AND HAVE A GOOD TIME, MICAJAH’”

Micajah looked crestfallen, and ambled off as the Judge rode away. “Er whole mont’, an’ hit hain’t half up! Well, dar’s dis erbout hit, dat’s one comfort—dem niggers kin ’buse me lack dey pleases, an’ dey gwine sweat an’ groan fur dey fun; but dis freedom gwine ter fotch hit ter me lack I were white, ef I des set an’ wait. Dey don’ git tired er settin’ an’ waitin’ fur hit ter come ter ’em, an’ I des bardaciously gwine steddy some more white folks’ ways ’sides totin’ de book.”

But the blissful contemplation ended as he neared his own cabin. In the doorway sat the fan-bearer, his tears having been wiped away by Cage’s good dinner, which had arrived from the Big House during the consultation with his master, and to which the imp had bountifully helped himself. Micajah’s heart was sore, but he smothered his wrath until he had made his meal, while the fan-bearer, with a fragment of belief still in Micajah’s powers, employed the time in feeling again for the incipient ’gater. Then Micajah rapped imperiously upon the table.

“You Amaziah!” The little negro dodged. “You infernal lazy black raskil, Amaziah!”

“Huh!” whimpered the boy.

“You lim’ er Satan, you lizard-eyed nigger, don’ you say ’huh’ ter me! You git me er coal and light my pipe quick! Fill up dat pipe fust, you lazy purp! What you got holes in yo’ head fur, hah? Um, um. Now git dat fan an’ fan dese here foots twel I tells you ter quit. You heah me!”

The man of freedom was stretched at full length, with a wreath of smoke about his head and his eyes closed to the world; the little black piece of misery was crouched beside him; and so daylight waned and the twilight came on; then the fan dropped from the bearer’s hand; he was fast asleep, and so was Micajah.

There was great excitement on the plantation, for Susanne, the Madame’s maid, was to marry Henry, Major Stone’s man-in-waiting. Susanne had told the Judge of her desire, and, not wishing to sell Susanne, or to separate her from the husband of her choice, the Judge had promptly bought him for a good round sum. The Madame herself had looked to the details of Susanne’s wedding-gown, for the Madame set great store by Susanne, and the ceremony was to be performed in the dining-room. Then afterwards would come the feast and dance in the Quarters until daylight, in which the inmates of every cabin, by invitation of the bride, might join.

Micajah’s cabin felt the unwonted influence, and even the little fan-bearer was in a flutter about the wedding. Milly had been bidden; carefully she laid her small store of finery upon the bed, and was softly singing to herself before going to the field. Milly believed in feasting, though, unlike Micajah, who loved to scrape his foot to anybody’s fiddle, she only believed in a certain kind of terpsichorean exercise, which she called “de ’ligious dance.” Hers was only executed upon solemn occasions, or commemorated special emotions, but Milly was indulgent to the general fault in others.

These fair days of freedom were losing more and more of their beauty to Uncle Cage; the song of the mocking-bird was far less sweet, and even the crimson-and-black beauty of the watermelon had almost lost its lusciousness to the idle slave of freedom. But, most of all, the impudence of the jay-birds maddened him when they came to gather from the remnant of his meals.

Many an unpicked bone and half-finished biscuit was flung at them in the abundance, to be regretted in the after-time.

“I lay I gwine larn ’em,” muttered Cage, as he resumed his solitary dinner after a vigorous onslaught, which was about the only exercise the monarch would allow himself; and the fact was that Uncle Cage might be suspected of a first-class case of dyspepsia, for the life of irregularity and idleness was telling hardly upon his astonished organs and his temper. “I lay I gwine larn ’em—er-eatin’ er my vittles an’ er-callin’ me ’Cage! Cage!’ des es pat, ’dout eben er handle ter hit, an’ erlowin’ ’He got hit! he got hit!’ lack hit any business er thern ef I is got freedom. I lay I larn ’em!”

As he grew more and more irascible the negroes drew entirely away from him, even his chosen few, and freely let him know that they could get along without him. But now the crowning insult had been offered—he had not been bidden to the wedding. It was Milly’s charm—he knew that it was Milly; the fact of his freedom could not alone have worked that change in his fellows; and Milly, finding her spouse exceedingly cross upon this particular morning, wisely refrained from any but necessary conversation.

Micajah was stung to the quick, and dwelt upon his sorrow. At a wedding he was in his own particular province, and everybody knew it—that was where it wounded. They had even invited Milly before his eyes, and the messenger had sarcastically “‘lowed dat es Cage were erbove workin’ wid common niggers, he reckoned he were erbove playin’ an’ eatin’ wid ’em.” And the little fan-bearer suffered that day, for Micajah’s feet were very hot.

At last the momentous hour arrived, and there was much hurrying to and fro in the Quarters. Here and there Susanne was swishing her wedding-skirts and bandying saucy words with the older negroes, but she did not even pause at Micajah’s cabin.

But Ole Marse would permit him to witness the ceremony with the house-negroes because of his freedom, an honor which was never shared by the field-hands, and Micajah was secretly glorying, though the glory would be short-lived, for there was the long night before him with its bedlam of joy let loose in the Quarters, and he was not to be of it.

So he stood in the doorway a shiftless figure, an alien, as it were, for he was unused to the manner of the house-negroes and was abashed before them, and for the present he was not a field-hand, because of his freedom.

For a moment he lost himself; then the ceremony was over; Ole Mis’s said something high and grand, and Ole Marse said something funny, and the little procession filed out.

The night was close and sultry, and as he sat alone in his cabin door Micajah could hear the strains of fiddle and banjo—he was even near enough to hear the shuffling of feet. The fan-bearer was soundly snoring, after having sobbed himself to sleep, for Micajah had sternly declared “dat de slabe cain’t go whar he marster hain’t axed—you heah me, Amaziah?”

As the night wore on the fun waxed louder and louder, the spell was irresistible, and Uncle Cage was almost beside himself. He had never been left out before—and this was freedom!

At last the cake-walk was begun, and Micajah, forgetting his injured dignity, his position, and his broadcloth, slipped stealthily out to peep at the revellers through a chink; and there was Milly—his Milly—leading the walk with Cross-eyed Pete. Micajah dug his toes into the dust. Oh, how peacefully Milly smiled!

“Dat cross-eyed houn’ is er-callin’ me outen my name,” he muttered.

His Milly laughed slyly—and this was freedom!

“How I ebber gwine make dat nigger know her place ergin?” he groaned. “I gwine git back an’ know mine—dat I is. I gwine gib up dis fool freedom if I libs ter see ter-morrer, sho I is; an’ I gwine meet dem niggers on ekil groun’s, an’ I gwine split dat cross-eyed nigger inter kindlin’ wood—sho I is—if I libs. An’ I gwine ter make de high an’ mighty niggers ter-night ter eat dirt ter-morrer—dat I is—yo’ heah me! I larn dat Milly ter laugh at her betters ’hine dey backs, if I peels ever’ hick’ry on de place—dat I is! O Lord, pity dis heah big fool nigger dat hain’t got no mo’ sense ’n ter lis’en ter de word er Satan, an’ up an’ ax Ole Marse fur dis heah freedom! I’s done wid hit—I spits hit out. Des lemme git shet uv hit, an’ I wouldn’ wipe dese ole foots on hit!”

There was a movement at the door, and, fearing detection, Uncle Cage slipped away to seek uneasy dreams.

Through the long hot days the work had gone on cheerfully in the new land, and now it was so nearly accomplished that the frolic was joyfully discussed.

Micajah had all along secretly resolved that he would attend the frolic, with or without a welcome, on the ground of primeval right; but the negroes, informed by Milly, or more probably by the fan-bearer, who was a most untiring carrier of tales, openly resented his intention, and now passed his cabin without a recognition, sarcastic or otherwise.

Even the fan-bearer was growing unbearably sullen; no kick or cuff could bring him out of it; his biggest flow of words failed to intimidate, and Micajah felt that his position was perilous. He more than once approached his master, with the same result—he must wait until the time was up.

It wanted but four days more to the barn dance, and here was one whole miserable week of freedom, and, alas! his freedom from freedom would come too late to save the day, so he resolved to make one more effort, and, shame-faced and miserable, Micajah once more sought his master.

The Judge knitted his brows forbiddingly.

“What is the matter, Micajah, that you want to give it up? Haven’t you got all to go with it that you wanted?”

“Yas, Ole Marse.”

“Then what the devil is the matter?”

“Ole Marse”—Micajah’s voice was very low, and his humbleness was as the dust—“I done fotch back de book, an’ I done fotch back de freedom. One hain’t no betterer dan tuther ter er nigger. Dey bofe on ’em lies ter er nigger, an’ hit hain’t nuffin but miz’ry. Dey don’ ’spec’ me no mo’; dey don’ lis’en ter me talk no mo’. Eben Milly, my ole ’oman—dat I gwine frail ’din er inch uv her life when I gits shet er freedom—done lay er spell on me: I kin feel hit in my bones. Eben de little nigger what tote de palm-leaf fan done talk sass ter me, an’ I ’low I cain’t stan’ hit!”

His master smiled, then bit his mustache gravely.

“But, Micajah, you must command respect—command it, and you will get it.”

“I done ’mand hit, Ole Marse,” said Micajah, pitifully, “but I ’mands hit lack er nigger, er big fool nigger, an’ hit hain’t done no good. Gittin’ freedom on de outside don’ make freedom on de inside, Ole Marse. I’s ’bleeged ter you, Ole Marse, ’deed I is, but I wants you ter take hit back. I’s nuffin but er fool nigger, Ole Marse, an’ ’fore Gord I hain’t gwine cut up no mo’! I’se got all I want ’dout freedom, an’ I gwine be thankful fur hit!”

Micajah paused expectantly; there was a silence, which was broken by the master’s firm voice.

“I am a man of my word, Micajah. I have promised you a month of freedom, and you have accepted it; I cannot take it back until the time is out. Stop your foolishness, and go and make the best of it.” And Ole Marse rode away.

Micajah looked long and earnestly into the cloud of dust he left behind. The condition was desperate; something must be done.

“HE COLLARED HIS ASTONISHED LITTLE NIGGER”

Between the gate and the Quarters he collared his astonished little nigger with no uncertain gesture, and led him across the field towards the river, and when Micajah returned he was alone. Spying the palm-leaf fan, the emblem of his freedom and his misery, on the floor of the cabin, where it had dropped from the hand of the rebellious Amaziah, he silently tore it into shreds and tossed them from him with a contemptuous grunt.

That night a theft was committed on the plantation—a very small one, it is true, but made memorable because it was the very night that Micajah sent the little negro home. Such a thing was almost unheard of, and the overseer, a black Hercules, was very indignant.

The next night a similar depredation was discovered, and the negroes were at fever-heat. “Reckon Ole Marse ’bout ter lose he min’, ter set still an’ see things erg-wine on diserway an’ hain’t raise his han’; but I gwine raise mine, sho mun!” declared the overseer.

So a cordon of guards was formed, with regular reliefs, and the night-watch began. The midnight wore away, the stars winked out, and the last guard slept peacefully before the rising sun, and no marauder disturbed the stillness of the smoke-house. But something had happened. The house, the Quarters, the very air, was full of it. A runaway nigger had been caught on Major Stone’s plantation, was caught stealing, and was even now being carried in handcuffs to the court-house to await his owner.

The summer season was dull enough in the little village which had the honor of being the county-seat, and the passing of the Judge’s carriage was of sufficient moment to attract a knot of idlers. So, too, the little court-room was filled with the same material, even before the Judge had leisurely alighted, after his usual custom; for, as the negroes said, “Eben de toot er Gabrul moughten pester Ole Marse; he gwine ’bout he business, an’ hain’t gwine herry fur nobody!”

The runaway was secreted in an inner chamber; nobody had even seen him, and speculation ran high; but the Judge, in the most exasperating manner possible, calmly disposed of some minor matters, leisurely joking his constituents, as was his wont, utterly oblivious of the throng of eager faces.

At last every joke had been turned and every paper signed, when the Judge relapsed into sternness.

“Bring in the prisoner!”

The mysterious door opened, and Major Stone preceded the little procession, stroking his beard in a peculiar manner, but as grave as a chief mourner.

“I’ve got a good one on him now,” he whispered to Attorney Allen as he passed up the aisle.

Then followed the culprit, his crossed wrists in the little steel cuffs, his head bent low upon his breast. There was something painfully familiar in the figure. The now soiled and torn broadcloth, even upon its spare ebon rack, still held the Judge’s outline in its creases. Ludicrously pitiful the picture, and the crowd swayed and murmured.

The Judge rose to his feet. He was thinking of green fields and boyish days, of the clear brook beyond the pasture, of the pair of honest black feet that had timed their pace to his.

“Micajah!”

There was a world of pathos in the tone. It mattered not if the whole of his little world was there to hear it—attorneys, clients, negroes, and all.

“I’se comin’, Ole Marse!” The pitiful wail rang through the court-room, and the old slave, oblivious of any other presence, fell prone at his master’s feet.

“Take de cuss offen me, Ole Marse, an’ lemme die, fur dat freedom hit ride me lack er hant, an’ let loose de debil in ole Cage! Take hit back, Ole Marse, fur I got er whole week er dat mizerbul freedom lef’, an’ you wouldn’ take hit back! Dat what mek me brek in yo’ smoke-house fur, an’—oh, Lord! I’s er mizerbul sinnin’ nigger, all on ercount er dis heah freedom; an’ you nebber sont de oberseer ter whup me; but I were willin’—de Lord He know how willin’ I were—if I mought git shet er dis heah freedom!”

There was a pause, broken by Micajah’s sobs.

“Tell it all, Micajah,” said the Judge.

“Dat what I taken Marse Harry Stone’s tuckeys fur. I ain’ want dem tuckeys, Ole Marse—dey done tied out dar in de fiel’ now—but I wants ter get shet er dis heah freedom! I hain’t nuffin but des er po’ fool nigger, Ole Marse. I hain’t gwine ter ax fur nuffin ebber no mo’—nuffin but sumpen ter eat, an’ mighty little er dat! Yo’ knows what’s the bestes’ fur me, Ole Marse, an’ yo’ knows I hain’t fitten ter breave de bref er life! Kill me, Ole Marse, kill me; but ’fore yo’ does hit take de cuss er freedom offen my soul!”

A sudden gust must have blown dust in the Judge’s eyes, for he winked them hard, then blew his nose vociferously.

A whispered consultation was held with Major Stone.

“That’s entirely satisfactory to me, Judge”—the Major was smiling.

“The case is dismissed!” roared the Judge.

THE DEVIL’S LITTLE FLY

In the long ago, when the nether world was not so densely populated as it now is, and the days were not so full of interest, never having forgotten an early experience with a most beautiful woman, and often feeling the spirit of adventure strong upon him, the lord of that domain used to walk abroad upon the earth in the cool of the evening.

Many of these excursions were full of excitement and variety, and sometimes of great daring upon the part of Satan, as there was no need of the slightest disguise, for the world was not so wise as it is now, and those simple folk, both fine and poor, white and black, dallied with Satan without question.

But the subjugation of an entire plantation, from the “Quality” to the “Quarters,” required time—more time, often, than Satan could give consecutively—so there were certain emissaries to be employed during enforced absences.

Now, by way of practice, the devil had conquered the “Quarters” of a great plantation, even to every soul, with the exception of an old mammy and a certain Zacheus who was very cautious, and was preparing plans for the “Big House,” when something went wrong with the eternal fire below, and the devil was besought to depart in haste.

His old courier, the jay-bird, brought the message from the under world, whither he had gone to deposit his usual load of firewood; and he was in no fine humor, for every Friday he bitterly remembered the day he had sold himself, in an unguarded moment, to the devil, for a worm-eaten, half-filled ear of corn—“sight unseen,” complained the jay to Mrs. Jay, when he sometimes filled the air with vain regrets.

“Dey says dat dey want you mighty bad down dar; de fire hain’t half hot, an’ dar’s sumpen de matter wid de furnace,” said the jay.

“You right sho dey needs me?” asked the devil, for he had other fish to fry that Friday morning,

“Course I is,” said the jay, crossly, for he was very tired, and had carelessly gotten his feathers scorched in the lower regions. “Think I gwine come all de way back ter tell you er lie? Ax my cousin, de crow; he went wid me ter de do’ an’ heared ’em gib hit out!”

“Go back,” said the devil, getting angry, “an’ tell ’em I hain’ gwine come twel dis day week, an’ ter keep dat fire hot, if dey knows what’s good fur deyse’fs! I got er job er my own ter ’ten’ ter, ’dout any partnerships!”

“Go ter hell yo’se’f! I hain’t due dar twel nex’ Friday, an’ I hain’t gwine budge twel den,” said the jay-bird as he preened his scorched wing and flew away.

Now the devil had a love-affair on hand, one of those strange, inexplicable things that require very careful handling, and it was the same old cry down below—any ordinary devil who knew his business could attend to that.

So the devil importuned the crow to take the message; but Squire Billups had just planted a large field of corn; there was work enough in that for Mister Crow to do for a whole week; he was not compelled to serve the devil but a single day out of the week, and he had already given that service; besides, Mrs. Crow was just beginning to hatch, and no self-respecting paterfamilias could fail to be within call during such an important event. The owl was too blind to go, for the journey had to be made by daylight; the black-snake was too sleepy, for his season was not yet fully arrived; the terrapin was too slow; and there was nothing left except the little fly; but the little fly was always ready, though his work must always be rendered upon the earth.

So, with many impatient stampings of his foot, the devil set about to take his departure. He got down upon his knees and blew his breath into a dandelion puff, and whispered to the seed, and a wind rose, and the seed scattered, and the down floated through an open window of the Big House and tickled Marse Charles’s ear as he lay asleep.

Now Marse Charles was come to attend the house-party of Marse Beverly Baillie, and was mad with love of Miss Demetria, Marse Beverly’s youngest daughter, who looked above the highest, and had no mind to marry any man. But Marse Charles, in his cloak of green-and-gold lace, swore upon his jewelled sword that he would win. Even now, as he slept, he held between his moist fingers a withered rose that had nestled upon the bosom of the cold Demetria.

It was such as this that the devil was loath to leave, and as he blew the seeds of the dandelion ball he sowed the seeds of jealousy in Marse Charles’s heart. Marse Charles sighed in his sleep, and clutched the withered rose; then the night became as daylight to him, and his eyes were wide open.

Biding his time, so that jealousy might breed the mushroom hate, the devil lingered, leaving the doubtful hours of the night to pass away; but between midnight and day, when the young man was wellnigh crazed with evil passions, the devil threw off all disguise and stood before him.

“Who are you?” cried Marse Charles, springing from his bed and stretching his swollen eyelids in the dusky light as his hand sought his sword.

“One who can do you a service,” said the devil, talking fine, for he always chose his language according to his surroundings.

Marse Charles’s brain was full of fever, and he put up his sword and listened, while he crushed nervously the rose within his palm.

“You are young, you are noble, you have the treasures of the earth before you,” said the devil, soothingly, “and yet you are the most miserable man in all creation.”

“What do you know about my misery?” cried Marse Charles, angrily.

“What do I not know?” asked the devil, sagely. “ I know that you love Demetria, that she disdains you, that you have a rival.”

“Ah!” sighed Marse Charles, “that is it—I have a rival! Whoever, whatever you are, aid me if you can, for I am mad with love. I have written a challenge to my rival, that we may settle this at daylight. I was about to send it when you called.”

“Not so fast,” said the devil, lifting a warning finger and drawing nearer. “Hot blood is the father of many regrets. Your rival is a better swordsman.”

“But ’tis honor! I do this for my honor!” said Marse Charles, loudly, puffing out his breast, frog fashion.

“Hush! not so loud! Your honor will do you much credit when you rot in the ground, run through with your rival’s sword,” sneered the devil, “leaving him in possession of Demetria’s favor. My plan is better than that.”

“What is your plan, and who the devil are you?” cried Marse Charles, writhing at the possibility of losing Demetria.

“That’s just it—I am he,” said the devil, chuckling; and, stretching out his arm, he touched Marse Charles with a hand as soft as velvet. “The world is mine, and I would sit upon a throne, my rightful seat, if it were not for this!” and he kicked out his hoof foot petulantly.

“Well, what is your plan? I haven’t time to listen to your miserable troubles; I’ve enough of my own,” said Marse Charles, impatiently.

“That’s so; I was talking to no purpose then,” said the devil, fingering Marse Charles’s ruffles. “But this, briefly, is to the point. Upon a certain condition, if you will do as I bid you, Demetria shall detest the very presence of your rival, disasters shall come upon him, and, lastly, Demetria shall smile upon your suit.”

“Words are cheap,” said Marse Charles, languidly. “What proof can you give me that you can do all of these things?”

“Look upon the occurrences of every day—look out upon the world—what better proof need I give?” said the devil, archly. “Moreover, if you wish, you shall know the innermost life of your lady as though you held a mirror ever before her face; her every act, her every sigh, nothing shall be hidden from you that you may have the desire to hear or know.”

Marse Charles pondered awhile, but the devil and the moonlight, together with his old-fashioned frenzy of love, had turned his head.

“Name your condition!” he cried, tearing the challenge into little bits; and there, in the beginning of the gray dawn, Marse Charles did what many a man, both before and since, has done.

It matters little to the story to give the exact specifications of the bargain, though Mammy, in the telling of it, was always very particular to describe minutely all of the virtues that go to make up the best part of a man—in other words, his soul. The awfulness of the bargain was duly impressed upon Mammy’s small listeners; how Marse Charles, for the love of a woman, had given up happiness forever and forever; how the eternal fires of hell were to be kept at white heat with fiendish delight by those who had made similar bargains; how the days of his coming were written in fiery letters upon the walls, and there would be no water in all hell for Marse Charles to drink, save the tears of the lost, which flowed forever, and they were exceedingly bitter and full of regret.

“Can’t he ever, ever get out, Mammy?” asked the little maid, whose lips were quivering, and whose great eyes were full of unshed tears.

“Yas, honey,” said Mammy, hastily, “if er good hoodoo kim erlong ’fore de bref leabe Marse Charles, er ’pentance kim ’fore de wo’ms ’stroy de body—an’ er good hoodoo sho gwine kim!—so don’ you cry, honey!”

But now, said Mammy, the devil had his man hard and fast, heart and hand, and when it became his time to leave the earth for a season he took Marse Charles out into a lonely place, and put into his hand a tiny snuff-box made of gold, curiously wrought upon the top.

“I will leave you now,” said the devil, “for the rest will be fair sailing. I have jaundiced your Demetria’s eyes to your rival. She sees that he has a squint, and talks with a drawl, and that he drags one foot in dancing. Misery is entering her soul, and she is very unhappy, for she believes that the squint is due to the hard counting of her father’s acres and slaves.

“In this box,” continued the devil, “I leave you my most useful possession, one that will never slumber and never sleep. You can keep watch upon Demetria when she goes abroad; but when the doors are closed between you, when you would know her every word and every act, just open the box, for nothing can be hid from the little fly. In two weeks I will come again, and in the meantime I wish you joy.”

So the devil went back to hell, chuckling as he went, for he carried Marse Charles’s conscience, fluttering like a wounded bird, in his hand, and Marse Charles put the little gold box beneath his lace ruffles and went on his way rejoicing.

Now it chanced soon after that there was a great meet, and the ladies and their gallants rode into the far woods. It was a fine company, for Marse Beverly Baillie had scattered his invitations broadcast, that the world might see the young Demetria. Marse Charles, on his great bay, rode sulkily alone, for his rival was in a high humor, having been paired to ride with the fair Demetria.

As he rode, Marse Charles was ready to question the efficacy of his bargain, when, just in the second mile, his rival’s horse went lame—so lame that he was forced to turn back, and Marse Charles, with much bantering and light laughter, gallantly rode forward with a dozen others to take his place. But the sun shone for Marse Charles and the world was fair, for Demetria gave him her sweetest smile.

Late in the day the rival came, upon a fresher horse; but Demetria had no eyes for him, all of her favors were reserved for Marse Charles; and as they rested upon a shady knoll after dinner, beside a bubbling spring, Marse Charles lost no time, and told his love in most vehement fashion.

But perplexities will creep in, even into the best-planned schemes, for as Marse Charles talked he thoughtlessly drew from his bosom the devil’s snuff-box, and as he toyed idly with the lid the sharp eyes of Demetria remarked its curious workmanship.

“A trophy!—a memento to mark the day!” she cried, throwing down a jewelled medallion, into which she had deftly slipped a ring of her own bright hair.

“A pawn of love as precious as heart’s blood!” cried Marse Charles, twirling his mustache and gallantly kissing the golden curl as he threw upon the grass an Egyptian bracelet, which he always wore concealed from view, and which held a tiny needle and a poisoned drop, forgotten by Marse Charles.

“No!” pouted the spoiled Demetria. “A manlier trophy—I would have the box—the little box you toyed with just now!”

The blood of poor Marse Charles ran cold. What would he not give to please the sweet Demetria? He almost reached his hand to yield it, but the little fly buzzed hard within, and, starting with a shock, he hid it in his bosom.

“A princess wore the bracelet once,” began Marse Charles. “It has a wonderful history. Make it more wonderful and wear it for me, sweet!”

“But I would have the box!”

“But it will make thee sneeze!”

“Then I will sneeze! Your love means less than any bubble here if you shall hold so fast to such a trifling thing!”

Then Demetria shed tears, and more reproaches followed, and Marse Charles, cold even to the marrow’s centre from fear, let loose the devil’s little fly and threw the box upon the grass.