Chapter IV: Thanksgiving, November 28 (1)

I rose very early so as to make the long drive to Gregory in time for church. I sent Chloe and Dab out to collect holly and moss, for my thanksgiving service is always to lay some tokens of loving memory in the sacred spot where my loved ones lie.

The morning was beautiful, but very cold; as the sun gained power it got warmer and the air was delightful. I was detained getting off so that I was late for church, but spent a long time in the churchyard placing the quantity of brilliant holly, the berries so red and the leaves so green, in beds of the solemn gray moss to my satisfaction.

When I finished I drove to Woodstock to spend the rest of the day and night. On my way I saw by the roadside two young people having a picnic _à deux_—a pretty woman, very fair in a Marie Louise blue shirtwaist. I thought what a charming way to pass their holiday, taking their lunch in the woods, the brown carpet of pine needles spread at their feet. As I came abreast of them the man crossed the road and said:—

"I wish to speak to you, ma'am. I've been waiting for you. You may remember you passed us driving in a wagon this morning? The man whose wagon we were in and who was driving, said: 'That's the lady for you; she's got plenty of land and money and you'd better see her.'"

I laughed and said, "He was right about the land, but much astray in the other statement. I have about a thousand acres of land, but not a cent of money."

"Well, ma'am, it's the land I'm after. I want to farm. I've been working with a big company at my trade, steam-fitting and carpenter's work, and they've laid off their hands in this tight spell, and I've took a notion to go back to farming for a while. I was raised on a farm an' was a-ploughin' cotton when I was 12 years old—I don't belong to this State. I come here last year for my wife's health. She loves the country, so I would like to take about thirty acres on shares."

I asked if he could manage that much alone. He pointed to his pretty wife and said:—

"She's just the workin'est woman you ever see an' she'll do her share, I reckon."

I told him to come up to Cherokee as soon as he could and look over the land; that I had a cottage which used to be our schoolhouse when I was a child, which I thought would be very comfortable for him after a little work. I asked him what shares he proposed. He said:—

"In course I don't know the way you works shares in this State, but at home I rents my farm to my brother-in-law an' I furnishes the team and feeds it and the land is under good fence an' we divides the cost of fertilizer an' he does all the work an' we shares the crop in half; he takes one-half and gives me one-half."

I told him that would suit me entirely. I had my land under good wire fencing and would furnish a team and feed it.

I drove on—I have always said I was the special child of Providence and here is an instance—waylaid on the road by the very person I was wanting to find and have been looking for in vain.

I was late for luncheon, but was forgiven in view of such unforeseen interruption.

WOODSTOCK, November 29.

This morning it poured torrents, so I did not start until midday, when it was not raining so hard. I drove through the terrific neighborhood road to the ferry only to find the wire broken and the flat drifting down the river.

In the intense cold and wet discomfort, I had food for devout thanksgiving that I had not been a little earlier and so been in the drifting flat. I turned and drove three miles up the river to another ferry, so that I did not get home until very nearly dark.

When within a mile of Cherokee I met my farmer on his way back to town; he had hired a horse and gone up to look over the land, and though it was a most discouraging day and he was wet to the skin and very cold and very sore, for he said he had not ridden for years, he was delighted with the land. He said, however, he feared the repairs on the house would cost more than a renter for only one year would pay, and that was all that he now proposed to rent.

I told him I was willing to put the repairs in and that while they were going on he could occupy two rooms that I had elsewhere, as he expressed great eagerness to come at once if he came at all. So there on the road in the rain, it was agreed that he should come up on the boat next Wednesday.

I am so worn out with the long drive and the intense cold that I can scarcely make myself write, but apparently my "white help" is in sight and I must record it.

December 3.

The boat blew very early yesterday morning. I had sent the two wagons up to meet Mr. and Mrs. Z. and their belongings, and they arrived with very neatly packed clean new furniture, his fine tool chest being the most impressive thing.

Mr. Z. very soon got everything in position and the cooking stove up and going, and this morning he started work upon the cottage.

Fortunately I had some shingles on hand or I could not have undertaken it, but only 1000 will have to be bought. The plastering is down, and that is the most serious consideration now. The sides are good, but the ceiling is much broken.

I drove Romola to the store to get the nails, etc., which were wanted, and then, feeling very much lulled and soothed by the thought of having some one who worked with such vim and needed no looking after, I spent a delightful, restful evening reading the "Memoirs of Madame Vigée Le Brun." Most interesting and inspiring to read of such a woman—such great gifts and above all such wonderful diligence—not an idle moment did she allow herself; her art and the social labors belonging thereto occupied every moment.

CHEROKEE, December 5.

I had to go to Gregory to-day to get the check for my rice. Small though it is, I need it to pay for thrashing, etc. I determined to take my colt Dandy over the ferry for the first time, as that would give a spice of enjoyment to an otherwise trying day, so had the pole put on the buckboard and Ruth and Dandy put in. He drives charmingly in double harness, but the ferry is a very trying thing at first to a horse—just a long, flat boat, only wide enough to admit of driving in with care, without railing front or back, and propelled across the Black River, which is very deep, by two negroes pulling on a wire slack enough to allow the passage of tugboats and small steamers. If, by chance, one of these comes puffing along while one is in the flat, it takes a very sensible horse to stand it.

My horses are all wonderfully intelligent and understand a reassuring explanation accompanied by a pat and loving word, but Dan is so young and frolicsome that he might not stop to listen. He is a picture pony, with the grace and activity of a kitten, and as plucky and stanch as possible, but terribly mischievous; has killed two calves for me. He is not yet broken to saddle, for I was afraid of putting much weight on him while so young. Breaking him to double harness has been a great pleasure to me, for he has never given any real trouble. I put him first in a very light vehicle with Mollie, the doyenne of the stable, who, though old (22) and reliable, is very spirited and pulled up with him beautifully, yet didn't mind his prancing and dancing. I didn't put him in single for fear he would come into general use before he was old enough to stand it.

One day Jim came to me and begged me to allow Jack and himself to put Dan in the little single wagon. I hesitated, as I was too busy to go and see it done, but Jim was so eager for it that finally I consented, told him to take the body off of the little wagon, leaving only the running gear, which would be light, and told him only one of them must be in the wagon at a time. I did not go out for about an hour, when I saw Jim leading Dan to the stable, no wagon to be seen anywhere. I asked where the wagon was. His answer was:—

"Dan went beautiful, ma'am, an' we drove him all over the plantation." "Well," I said, "then, where is the wagon?" Most reluctantly Jim went on: "Then, ma'am, Jack an' me thought as he'd done so well we wud jes' take him down the avenue an' haul in that wood by the gate." "What," I cried, "that heavy oak wood?" Lower and lower went poor Jim's head. "Yes, ma'am." "And what happened then?" I was determined to extract the whole story, so as to know how to act. "Then, ma'am, Dan he pull fine till we cum to rise the hill, an' then he wudn't pull the wagon up." "Did Jack and you take off some of the wood, and one of you push behind?" "No, ma'am, we never thought of that, but we tried to make him pull it, an' when we whipped him he just pranced and threw himself down till we had to take him out for fear he'd hurt himself."

I was very angry. Nothing more injudicious could have been done to the dear little beast who up to this time had thought human beings all powerful and all wise. "Take him back to the wagon, Jim, but give Jack time to run ahead and take off half the load; and put the logs entirely out of sight, Jack, so that Dan may not know that any change has been made in the wagon."

Jack ran ahead and Jim followed with Dan, I walking by him patting and shaming him by turns, and assuring him that he had lost his potato for that day. The wagon was halfway up the steep ascent in the avenue, the only little rise for miles in this flat country. It is hard to believe that those two men had put a genuine load of wood on that wagon, but they had, live oak, which is heavy and strong as iron.

To make things worse, the horses were all loose in the park, and Dan whinnied after them and they answered. While Jim was putting Dan in I called Mollie and had her halter put on and kept her near Dandy. He stood quietly until Jim took up the reins and clucked to him, then he reared and plunged and bucked, but I made Jack push behind, so that gradually the top of the hill was reached, and then I led Mollie ahead in the direction of the stable yard as though I had forgotten all about Dandy, but told Jim to use the whip freely if necessary, for that wagon had to be brought into the yard by him or he would be ruined. Jack must push behind with all his might so that the pony should not be strained, but come he must.

Jim and Jack both pleaded to leave the wagon till afternoon and then put him in, but I said: "You went against my orders in putting the load on, but having started it you have got to carry it through." Dan proceeded to do all that a kitten would do under similar circumstances—he doubled himself up, he threw himself down, he stood on his hind legs and pawed the air, but finally he leaped forward and took wagon, Jack, Jim, and all up the avenue and into the stable yard at a full run. Mollie and I just cleared the road in time, but nothing was broken, and Dan was in the sweetest humor and no harm was done, for I drove him in double harness the next day and he was quieter than usual; but I have not allowed him put in single harness again, for I want him to forget this episode entirely first.

To return to my trip to Gregory—I started at 12:30, Dan and Ruth in fine spirits and quite playful. When we reached the ferry the man in charge begged me to take the horses out and let him roll the buckboard in and have the horses led in, but I was not willing for that. I have to cross the ferry whenever I drive to the railroad, and my horses must learn to go in quietly, for I often cross without a servant. I had Jim walk ahead and stand in the flat at the point where the horses should stop and then I drove in. The water showed between the flat and the shore, a moving streak of light, which Dan examined carefully, and then snorted. As I touched him lightly with the whip he made a flying leap into the flat and stood perfectly still for a moment, nostrils distended, ears erect like a bronze horse. Before he had time to realize the situation and that we were moving, I slipped out and went to him with an apple and a few sweet potatoes, which he loves. As he smelled them in my hand he relaxed his tense aspect and in a few seconds he was eating as contentedly as though he had been accustomed to a flat daily.

On our return trip he went quietly into the flat and turned his head at once to see if I was coming with a potato, and I do not think he will ever give any trouble at the ferry in future. It was wonderful to see how Ruth did all she could to assist in getting him in quietly. I think she remembered her own first trip, how frightened she was and how I calmed her in the same way with sweet potatoes.

I got through all my business and got back to Cherokee at 5:30, which was, I think, doing well for Dandy's first long drive, thirty miles and the ferry, and he was just as gay in the last mile as he was in the first.

December 19.

Punch came to-day to ask me how much he still owed me. It was hard to tell, for two years ago I sold him a fine plough horse for $50. He had just moved on to my place; wanted to rent land and plant corn and cotton. I heard he was a fine ploughman and his wife a good hoe hand, and I was quite cheerful when he said instead of hiring an animal if I would give him a chance to pay for it out of his crop he would like to buy this horse from me. I had more horses than I needed and readily consented to omit any cash payment and wait until the end of the year.

At first the new broom swept very clean. Punch worked hard and his wife was very stirring and I was delighted; but as the spring ripened into summer and the days grew long and the suns hot, and I moved to the pineland, Punch and Judy began to rest in the shade of the big trees in the pasture, and the weeds grew apace in the crop, so that when the autumn came the results were pitifully small, and I did not exact the payment of the debt, but told Punch, as he was an expert at shingle making, he could cut shingles in my swamp, where there was plenty of cypress, and pay his debt in that way. This proposal seemed to delight him, and he promised to go to work at once. But at the end of two years he had only paid $27 on his horse, and no rent at all for the land he had planted, and he ceased to feed his horse during the winter, so that it died.

He was in great distress, and in view of his misfortune I forgave him the debt and urged him to work his crop this year. He promised renewed effort and I hoped anew. About midsummer he came to me in terrible trouble. His boy had been arrested and put in jail. He was a boy of about 18 years; his son, but not his wife's; but she in the kindness of her heart when she heard that the child was neglected and starving, took him when 2 years old and cared for him as her own, and had brought him up more carefully than most. The boy had hired a bicycle in Conway, fifteen miles distant, for three days, and had come to visit his father and remained three months. The owners of the wheel had great difficulty in tracing him, but naturally when found they put him in jail.

Punch and Judy, anguish stricken and weeping, came to me for help. I told them the only possible way to help the boy was to let him take the punishment the law decreed. It might save him from being a confirmed thief. All in vain I talked; they pleaded with me, weeping, to lend them the $15 they needed to get him out. They had neither of them slept in their bed since the news first came; they could not go to bed knowing he was in jail. When I asked where they slept they answered on the floor, without mattress or bedding of any sort, and they looked it. Judy said: "Miss, yo' tink I kin git een my comfutuble high bed en kno' dat chile, my own boy I raise, is punish een jail. No, ma'am, I tell Punch neber will I git een dat bed agin till my boy is save."

Unfortunately I had the money in the house, and I gave it. They had sold one of their cows and got the other $15, and Punch went and paid the $30 and the suit was dropped. No sooner was the boy free than he was arrested again for robbing the post-office, and then their disappointment and distress was so keen that they became silent. Judy only said to me: "Miss, I wash me han' of de boy, now; me heart is broke."

It was pathetic in the extreme. I tried to encourage Punch to do some work and pay me in that way, as he had promised, but in vain. I needed shingles more than ever, but with all my efforts he still owes $10 on this last debt. Now he came to tell me that he was going away. He put it with great delicacy and began by saying, "Miss, I dun'no how 'tis, I kyant please yo'; I try en I try, en somehow I kayn't cum it. Yo' kno', my missis, a man kayn't do mo' dan 'e kin. Man p'int, but God disapp'int."

I could not help laughing at this new version of "L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose." "Oh, Punch," I said, "I think you have got the wrong end of that. I think in this case it is God who points and man who disappoints; but certainly you can go, only you must do something to pay me that $10 before you leave, for I am in need of the money, and I have waited on you as long as I possibly can. I am perfectly willing to take the shingles, and it would not take you long to pay up the debt." It was in vain, unless I had the Sheriff take his cow, which I could not bear to do. He said he would pay it by degrees next year, and I was so glad to have him go, that I gave up the effort to get anything from him.

The two acres of cotton he rented were very near the field I planted. He and Judy did not work theirs, so there was a fine field of grass and weeds, with a few stalks of very tall cotton. Notwithstanding the rarity of the stalks in their bed, day after day I met Judy coming out of her patch with an immense bundle of cotton on her head. Jim would grow furious when we met her, and now and then break out: "I work yo' cotton an' keep it so clean, f'r Punch pick." There is no doubt that he was right, but no one could ever catch Judy anywhere but in her own patch, where the same few bolls of cotton showed out every day. Jim begged me to send them off before another crop season, so I am glad to have them go, only I do wish I could have got my money.

December 17.

The Zs getting on finely. She is a wonderfully capable woman, and I think a very nice one. She seems so pleased to be in the country again and is eager to take the milking—wants me to send off Gibby and let her milk.

I told her that she could take the Guernsey cow up, that as soon as the calf got big Gibby said she was dry and he could not get any milk, but that I knew it was only because he was a poor milker, and I would be delighted if she would feed her well and milk her; I knew she could bring back the milk. She did not seem very pleased, but consented.

She is evidently not a strong woman, and if a bad spell of weather should come she could not go out to milk, and I would just be left milkless. Better go slowly, I think, and not upset things.

I told Chloe to give them a pint of milk every morning and every evening. The cows are not giving much, but then I am not feeding them as I usually do.

The stringency in the money market affects everything. There is no sale for anything—cotton, cattle, horses—I have tried to sell anything and everything, but in vain.

December 20.

To-day I signed a contract with Mr. Z. which I got a lawyer to draw up. He has been very anxious about the signing before this, but I thought there was no great hurry.

He and his wife have been very diligent, working early and late, setting out a new strawberry bed and getting land ready for other things. She has planted celery very successfully and says this land is just suited for it, and wants to try a quarter of an acre in it. They are charmed with the ever flowing artesian well and are arranging little ditches to irrigate in dry weather. Altogether I feel so peaceful and content that it is hard to write regularly.

Christmas Night.

Had a peaceful, happy day, many loving tokens of the blessed season of good-will. It is always a pleasure to make the darkies happy with small presents and I included the Zs in my offerings of good-will.

Besides many little things to eat I presented them with a pair of Plymouth rocks, a beautiful pullet and cock, as they are anxious to start a poultry yard. This afternoon she came in with an offering for me, a necklace of fish scale flowers made by herself, which she had told me the other day she sold for 50 cents.

I was quite touched by it and by her happiness over the fowls. Altogether I feel very thankful that I have found such satisfactory people. He talked to me a great deal to-day and said he would give $1000 if he could get rid of his evil temper. I told him a thousand prayers would perhaps accomplish his desire better than the same number of dollars. He went on:—

"I've been a powerful wicked man. I've shot two men an' been shot twice myself and I've stabbed one man nine times and been all cut to pieces myself, but for two years now, since I met this wife, I've quit drinkin' an' I'm tryin' to live a good life."

I told him I felt quite sure if he earnestly tried he would succeed and that I would do all I could to help him. I felt a little disturbed for a moment, but a full confession of one's sin is often the beginning of a new life, and the idea of helping a man to a higher, better life adds a new interest to the experiment.

January 1.

Sat up last night to see the old year out, the year which has brought us sorrow and distress, yet there is great sadness in seeing it go. In the last moments of the dying year I sank on my knees and prayed that this whole land might be blessed and guided through the coming year.

The day is brilliantly beautiful and we went to our simple little service in Peaceville. Dear, frail Mrs. F. had made a great effort to get to church "to return thanks for her many blessings." Eighty-five years have passed over her, the first half surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences that money can give. She now has the bare necessities of life, no cook and none of the conveniences of modern houses that make cooking easy. She is always cheerful, always dainty and beautiful to the eye, and one never hears of what she lacks or needs, nor of the possessions of the past.

To-night Chloe came to tell me Elihu is very sick with pain in his side. I sent her out at once with some tea and milk, a mustard plaster I made, and told her to see it put on. She is always so good and willing. Though it was 9 o'clock and quite a walk to Elihu's house, she went cheerfully. They never have anything prepared for sickness. There is a great deal of pneumonia about and I want to take Elihu's case in time. With all his faults he is one of the best men on the place.

January 4.

I am puzzled beyond measure to know what to do for another year. It is impossible to go on planting rice if it is to sell at 40 cents per bushel. It is an expensive crop, and if one borrows money, as I did last year, at a high rate of interest, and puts a mortgage on the plantation, it very soon means ruin. I have no idea how I am to pay off that mortgage of $1000 this year, but hope the bank will be willing to renew.

Instead of being anxious to have the usual first of January powwow over, as I generally am, I shall do all I can to put it off, for how can one do one's share in a powwow when one does not know what to say? I have absolutely nothing to propose. As far as my seed rice will go I will rent rice land to the negroes, and if I had money of my own I would go on and plant, for it seems to me the complete giving up of the staple industry in a country is really a revolution. Our labor understands no other cultivation; the whole population lives on rice, white and black, especially black. It is a wonderfully nutritious and sustaining food, and if suddenly its cultivation ceases there will be much suffering. Our cattle live on the straw, it being the strongest and most palatable of the straws. My horses will not touch fresh oat straw while there is a wisp of old rice straw to be had; the cows and pigs are fed on the flour, a gray substance that comes from the grain as the chaff is removed in the pounding mill. Mr. Studebake, a great Hereford cattle man, told me that rice flour and pea-vine hay make a perfect ration for cows, one supplying exactly what the other lacks. If rice is given up the cattle and pigs will have to go too.

January 10.

To-day I went down to Casa Bianca to receive Marcus's resignation of his place as foreman. He is going to move "to town," to enjoy the money he has made in my service and planting rice. He has bought land there and built four houses, which he rents out. He is a preacher, or, as he says, "an ordain minister." I have wondered he stayed these last few years, but he has made so good an income that his wife was willing to forego the joys of the town; he owns a horse and buggy, three very fine cows and calves, and three splendid oxen.

I feel very sad at parting with him; he has been here so long, and as foreman he has been most satisfactory in every way. When he turned over the keys of the barn to me I almost broke down, for I hate change anyway, and I really do not know to whom I can give the keys.

King came to beg me to give him a house. He is absolutely worthless and unreliable, but he spoke of his large family and how necessary it was for him to get where he could pursue his business of shadding, and Casa Bianca was the very best pitch of tide for the shad fishing. He gave me an idea, and I told him he could have the house if he would give me two shad a week during the shad season, two and a half months. This he most willingly agreed to do. I never have been able to get any tribute at all from the shad nets, which are set in front of my doors all winter. Five or six men shad there regularly, but they elude all demands, and I rarely eat a shad, as they are too great a luxury for me to buy unless I have company; they are like the wild ducks which swarm in the rice fields at night in the winter, "so near and yet so far."

After much thought and uncertainty I decided to give the keys to Nat; he is willing and knows all the sheep and cattle well, and on the whole is the best one on the place. It is a mere form, for there is nothing left in the barn, but Nat is very proud and happy and the other men very sulky.

January 12.

Cæsar came up from Casa Bianca with Jonas and King to say they could not stand Nat as head man and to indicate that he, Cæsar, was the man for the place. I said to them: "Do you know why I chose Nat? I looked over my book and found he was the only man who for years has paid his debts to me. Every one else on the place has borrowed money when in distress, or got a cow from me on time and left the debt hanging, in spite of my reminding them from time to time that I needed the money; but every time Nat has borrowed money from me or bought an ox he has paid up promptly as soon as his crop came in. Now, this shows fidelity and honesty, and, therefore, I have given the keys to Nat, and if you do not like it you can all leave."

They were dumb at this. Then I asked each one how much he owed me, bringing out my book to verify. Not one owes less than $8, which they have owed over a year. "Now," I said, "don't you think I had good reason for choosing Nat to carry the keys?" They looked sheepish and departed.

CHEROKEE, January 13.

Last night at 2 o'clock Chloe woke me to say Mrs. Z. was very ill and Mr. Z. wanted a horse to go for the doctor. She had sent Dab to wake Gibby to go for old Florinda, the plantation nurse, spoken of as the "Mid" or the "Granny," who lives some distance off across a creek. I told her Mr. Z. could take Nana to go for the doctor.

I dressed rapidly and came down. Mrs. Z.'s face was crimson and she seemed unconscious. He was bending over her crying like a child and wailing out all the time, "O God, help her! I know I'm wicked, but spare her!" It was distressing.

Chloe was bathing her feet in hot water and doing all she could. I rubbed her for two hours and applied mustard until the nurse came, and about daylight she seemed relieved. I had not seen how the nurse could be got, but Dab's account was exciting.

He with difficulty woke Gibby, who when he heard there was sickness at the "big house" got up quickly and they went together to the edge of the creek, where they shouted and knocked on a big cypress tree with sticks until the old woman came out of the house down to the edge of the creek, on the other side. When she understood it was sickness at the "big house" she jumped into her paddling boat which was tied there and without going back into the house paddled herself across, and when she landed, Dab said "she tie up her coat to her knee an' start to walk so fast that Gibby en me had to run to keep up."

This is an old time plantation sick nurse, who, though now very old, flies to relieve the sick with enthusiasm. She brought herbs with her and soon relieved the patient. This morning I lent the horse and buggy to Mr. Z. to go down to Gregory and consult the doctor.

January 14.

Last night Mr. Z. came to ask me to lend him a lantern every evening. I said I would with pleasure. He said he wanted to pull corn stalks at night, that Maud, his wife, could do it two hours every night and not waste daylight on it.

I said I thought if he worked all day it would be as much as he could do, but he could always get the lantern. He went on in a conversational way to say:—

"I've got a fine burn on them piles o' trash."

"I hope it is well out, Mr. Z. There is such a gale it is no time for burning trash. I hope you saw the fire entirely out."

"No, Ma'am," he said, "I've got it started good, an' it's burnin' fine."

I said not another word, but flew through the house to the pantry, seized the lantern and called to Dab to follow me. We ran at full speed to the barn-yard, where not 200 feet from the threshing mill (which cost $5000) and four large barns three bonfires were raging, the flames and sparks whirling and licking out in every direction up to high heaven, it seemed to me.

There was nothing to be done but watch until the piles burned down. Then I had Dab cover the lightwood posts and beams which Mr. Z. had put on to insure a good burn, with earth.

If I could have got at other hands I would have called them, but it is half a mile to the "street," and there was nothing to do but help Dab myself as much as I could. I had sent him for hoe and spade and shovel, and he worked splendidly.

Mr. Z. had followed me down, also his wife, though I begged her not to come out, having been so ill yesterday. He would not help in any way to put out the fire and kept saying the wind was blowing in the other direction.

"Yes," I said, "but the wind does not take long to shift, and if it did change there would not be a building left on the place. Dwelling-house and all would go."

I noticed that he got very white as he stood and watched me, but I was too actively employed to watch him, but I thought the tears were running down his cheeks as he stood in the fierce red light. Mrs. Z. hovered around a while talking to him in a low tone and then she left.

When Dab and I got through I had the shovel in my hand and wanted to take the lantern. I handed the shovel to Mr. Z., saying, "Will you take the shovel, Mr. Z.?"

Fortunately, I had the full light of the lantern on his face, and I was shocked; he did not move. I fixed my eyes full upon him and repeated, "You did not hear me, Mr. Z.; will you take the shovel?"

Slowly he put out his hand and took it. I still fixed him with my eye, until he turned and walked toward the house, and I followed him. Dab had gone on before. It was 11 o'clock when I got back.

January 16.

Chloe is in a terrible state of mind, Mr. Z. has frightened her so. Last night he said to her:—

"That missis of yours had a very narrow squeak for her life last night. Twice I had my hand raised to kill her and Miss Z. pulled me back, en at last when she handed me that shovel an' told me to take it I cum as near killin' her right there en buryin' her up with dirt with that same shovel, jest as she had buried up my fires, as I ever cum to anything in my life—en more than that, if she goes to givin' me orders I'll do it yet, en le' me tell you you'd better not tell her this or I'll tackle you. I don't 'low people to fool with me."

Chloe is enough of an actress to convince him that her silence was assured. I thanked her for her confidence and told her she need not be anxious. The fact of the light enabling me to look him in the eye had saved me, and the danger was past.

January 17.

Was busy by the smoke-house this morning when Mr. Z. passed by. He has not spoken to me since the night he set the fires in the gale of wind and I had them put out. He has written me several notes demanding things, to which I have sent verbal answers, and I felt it was time to put a stop to that sort of thing, so as he passed I said in a clear, loud voice:—

"Good morning, Mr. Z."

I was bending over a table at the time, brushing off the hams preparatory to smoking them. He took no notice but passed on as though deaf. I straightened, up and said again in a clear voice:—

"Mr. Z., you did not perhaps hear me; I said 'Good morning.'"

He stopped and slowly raised his hat, said good morning and passed on, and I knew I had scored another victory.

About half an hour afterward he came back and said he would like to see me in the field where he was ploughing. I told him I would be at leisure in a minute and would join him in the field.

I went in to get my coat and told Chloe where I was going. She implored me not to go, but I soothed her fears, trying to laugh her out of them. When I got out into the field Mr. Z. asked me some trivial questions about where to plant things, and then he said:—

"You went too far with me the other night, Mrs. Pennington."

"Indeed?" I said.

"Yes," he said. "You told me I had no sense."

"I certainly didn't tell a story, Mr. Z., if I said so. I thought as I stood there and saw that fire swirling around in that gale that I had never seen any one over three years old do a more foolish thing."

We faced each other squarely for a moment. "I saw murder in your eye, but I'm not afraid of wild beasts."

Gradually his face relaxed and I saw the demon had fled for the time, but it was exciting.

After this he talked naturally and pleasantly about what he was going to plant. As I left I said:—

"Remember, you can plant the crops where and how you please, I don't want to be consulted about that, you understand it; but never set a fire burning without asking me."

January 23.

Yesterday being Sunday, I invited Mr. and Mrs. Z. to come in and have service with me, which they did. They went home and made a careful toilet and returned with Sunday clothes, and hats, and kid gloves closely buttoned. I found it a little embarrassing to read the church service, but went through manfully, and a short, simple, clever sermon.

Life has become very interesting with this new problem. I told Mr. Z. the other night that I thought he had better go to my neighbor's who has a nice house in the pineland, and that I thought it would be healthier for his wife, and that of course we could break the contract by mutual consent, but he answered promptly that he did not wish to go anywhere else, that the thirty acres he had taken was the finest land he ever saw anywhere and he was going to make a pile of money for me and a pile for himself; he had been all over my neighbor's land and it did not please him as well.

I wrote to my two lawyer nephews a full account of what had happened, and they both wrote, "For heaven's sake, break the contract!" But I must bide my time to do that. The arrangement was that no money was to be paid at present; all that I owe him for carpenter's work on his house was to be taken from my share of the crop. If I were to break the contract I would have to pay him all that at once, and I have not the money. My cotton has not sold and there is nothing else to look to.

Ran out to meet mail man this morning to get a letter off and found that his horse was quite sick—could scarcely walk. Sent Dab in for the aconite and spoon and gave the horse a full dose, and in a few moments he was able to get on again.

Have had twenty cords of live oak cut and hauled to the river, but cannot sell it in Gregory, as I hoped.

January 28.

Yesterday had Green take Dandy, my beautiful pony, to Mr. F. in Gregory to be sold. If I can sell him now, I can pay my taxes. He is so beautifully formed and so easily kept and so gay and so fond of me that it is a great trial to send him off; he would make a splendid polo pony, but if I can make him pay the tax I must do it, for I still have three grown horses and two colts.

February 2.

Up till 1 o'clock last night with Mrs. Z. She was unconscious for two hours and pulseless for fifteen minutes.

It is dreadful, I said to myself last night as I was trying to pour brandy down her throat and restore her to life. "You poor young thing, if ever you get up again I will try to get you back to your own people." She has four married sisters in her home, wherever that may be; for some reason they do not give clear information as to where they came from.

February 13.

Mrs. Z. told me that she wanted to go home and Mr. Z. is willing for her to go, but will not go himself, and she is not willing to leave him. She knew he would go right back to drinking and killing people, both of which amiable weaknesses he had given up since they met.

I told her I was not willing to have him stay without her, but not to tell him that, as it would enrage him; just to stick to it that she would not leave him. She gets paler and thinner every day, and I know he cannot hold out. I said yesterday if I only had the money to pay him up in full I would propose to do so and break the contract, and Chloe said at once:—

"Miss Patience, le' me len' yer de money. Ef yu jes send me down to town I kin git um from de bank fer you. Do please, ma'am, le' dem go."

So I spoke to Mr. Z., saying, though it was most inconvenient, if he wished to go with his wife, which was most necessary in her state of health, I would consent to break the contract and pay him the $60 I owed him for work. Most reluctantly he consented.

I sent Chloe to Gregory in the pony carriage, and she brought back the money. I wrote a note for it at 6 per cent, and made her pin it in her bank-book in case of my death.

February 16.

Paid Mr. Z. up in full for services and gave him a note for his little furniture, and bade them good-by, sending them to Gregory in the wagon with Nana. I felt quite sorry to part with Mrs. Z. She is a nice woman, and, poor thing, married to a madman, to whom she is devoted. Thank heaven he is going and that we part friends. My experiment of white help is at an end!

He took me over all the work—beautiful strawberry bed, with potatoes planted, 900 onions set out, celery bed started, all beautifully prepared. It is sad to think it will soon all be grown up in weeds. I must take up my burden again.

February 24.

In field all day; having oats ploughed in; bitterly cold north wind blowing.

February 25.

In oat field again all day. Gibby ploughing with oxen and Green with Nana.

February 27.

A charming meeting here of the woman's auxiliary. I went out to the oats field intending to get back before 12, the hour of meeting, but Gibby went to burn up some patches of cockspurs and let the fire get away into the pasture, which was terrible. I had to stay and fight it.

I made Green take his plough and make a deep furrow ahead of the fire round in a large curve and had the women beat it out on the sides.

While I was busy with hands and face blackened Dab came running to tell me the "company had come" so that I had to rush home and make a very hurried toilet to open the meeting. We are to sew for an Easter box to be sent to the mountains of North Carolina.

February 26.

At church to-day Miss E. came up and said: "Miss Patience, going to take any one home with you to-day?"

I said "no."

"Well, then, I am going to ask you to take me to spend the night. I haven't seen you for so long."

"With the very greatest pleasure," I answered truthfully.

Miss E. is one of the best women that ever lived and the very best housekeeper to boot. She knows exactly how much to provide for a family of four without waste and yet abundantly, and she can arrange for a table of seventy-five with the same precision; abundance of excellent food and no waste. With such qualities it seems strange that she should have now only the position of what Chloe calls "sextant" to our little village church, and her modest remuneration of two dollars a month is all that she has in the world.

She was a woman of wealth, but, like so many others, her means all disappeared with the end of the war, and she has supported herself by sewing and taking places as housekeeper for a number of years. Now she begins to show the ravages of time and does not feel she can do all that a housekeeper should, and for the last six years has lived in Peaceville, where she had nieces who are devotedly kind to her, but she will not live with them. She lives alone in a house which belonged to her mother and where her summers were spent in her youth. It has passed into other hands, but she is allowed to stay there in the winter as the house is only rented in summer.

It is very near the church, and she is very happy and a marvel of cheerfulness and faith—no repining, no complaining. She sometimes takes in a little sewing still, but for absurdly small prices.

Miss E. is a walking chronicle of the ancestry of every one in the county, I might almost say in the low country, as the coast is called in this State, and can tell you who is who emphatically. I enjoyed having my memory refreshed on many genealogical facts, as I am very weak in that quarter. I am really devoted to this dear old lady and feel it a privilege to have her with me.

February 27.

Drove Miss E. home and then began preparing for the paying guests, who arrived at 2.

March 2.

Finished planting oats at last. I have spent every day in the field for nearly two weeks—the last few days a joy—just drinking in the delicious soft air and watching the buds which promise so much.

There is a mystery of hope over everything, the rest of the ideal, and as I sat on a cedar trunk to-day and looked out into the drowsy blue of the atmosphere I felt a sense of gratitude to the Great Maker and Giver of all this beauty—thankful for my blessings; the great blessing of space and freedom and closeness to nature—yes, and thankful for my limitations, my sorrows, my privations. Thankful that He has thought me worthy to suffer and has taught me to be strong. He is beauty and power and love illimitable and infinite.

March 13.

Jim summoned to Gregory by the extreme illness of his wife, and I have to turn over the stable and cows to poor Elihu, who can't help taking the feed and the milk and is the poorest driver in the world; always touches up the horse that is pulling all the load; yet I am thankful to have him to fall back on. The storm last fall threw down all the pine trees on my 350 acres of woodland and there are several thousand cords of pine wood lying on the ground which I am trying to get cut and shipped. It has been the habit of many to sell the wood to negroes at the stump, as they call it, for 25 cents a cord. This I am not willing to do, and consequently find it very difficult to get the wood cut. I pay 40 cents a cord for cutting, 30 cents a cord for hauling, and about 30 cents for flatting, and the wood brings $1.50 a cord if it is pine, and $2 if it is lightwood.

The hands are needing work. I have ten men on Cherokee, and if they would work I would have money for all my needs and their families would live in abundant comfort. There is no felling of trees necessary. They are all lying prostrate; it is only to cut them up, and the hauling is only one-quarter to one-half mile to the landing; yet day after day the hands are loafing about the roads, with guns on their shoulders and hide when they see me coming. If I come up on one unexpectedly he is very polite and has some tale of fever all night or a sprained finger or a headache to explain his not working at the wood.

March 16.

Rode out into the woods on horseback with surveyor to get the lines of my land marked distinctly, as all the large timber is being stolen from it by negroes who own lands adjoining. It is terrible to see the trees all lying on the ground lapped and interlaced so that it is hard to get through on horseback.

March 18.

Went out to see the wood which has been measured and is ready to send off.

March 21.

Gog and Gabe have the _79_ flat loaded and have sent Elihu with them in charge of flat; they must leave on this afternoon's ebb-tide. I first told Cubby to go with the flat, and he made objections and I got very angry and told him instead to take _Sarah_ up the creek to the landing to be loaded to-morrow.

March 22.