ps^fsr ipl^ii?^; "iiiif"^ BoolcJ=ii3^SX Gopight}J»J3M— COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV SPRIGS O' MINT 1 Sprigs o' Mint BY JAMES TANDY ELLIS NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY J906 UBRARY of CONGRESS Two CoDies Received MAY 2 1906 T63^e1 rl COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY CONTENTS PAGE Oh, Sing Me a Song ! 9 The Meanest of the Mean 11 The Return of Joe 13 Hal 15 The New Piano 21 "Here ! Little Ponto, Here !" 22 When Oscar Smokes His Cigarette 24 The Trials of Overman 26 Ole Man Harper 31 Trumbo Cheatum, Jock 33 The Old Ghent Band 37 When Mcjllie Came Home 40 Nigger Jess 43 The Night It Blowed in Ghent 46 Black Sammy 48 When Blood Wasn't Shed 49 Gone to Texas 54 Martin Bolan 57 A Song of Carroll 63 Song of Whippoorwill 65 A Kentucky "Last Leaf" 67 The Ups and Downs of G. Washington Brown 69 Ole Bull-Frorg 74 A Touch of High Life 76 Fiddlin' Farley 82 Bill Boles, of the Steamboat Band 86 The Drouth and the Rain 90 « Pant Powden of Powder Creek 93 De Little Niggerette 99 The Mistakes of a Country Candidate loi I'm Yearnin' fer the River no The Man Who Marked the Logs 112 When the Katydid Sings 121 Pelican Smith 122 Slibbers on Spiritualism 128 The Disorganization of Rad's Run Church. . .139 The Tale of Falling River 143 "An Eye for an Eye," Etc 150 Ole Uncle Abe 153 The Downfall of Rev. Duckey 155 Some Superstitions 159 "Ned" 161 SPRIGS O^ MINT OH, SING ME A SONG! Oh, sing me a song of the orchard old, With its bloom of the spring-tide day, When skies were of silver, the sun was of gold. When the joys of the heavens play; When each memory dear of the bygone year Comes swift on the sun-kissed breeze, Where the nesting bird eases her weary wings In the cool of the blossoming trees. Then sing me a song of the meadow so green And the gold of the waving wheat, When the sunbeams have kissed on the river's sheen — 'Tis a song that is soft and sweet ; And tell me of lambs on the old hillside That blend with the sinking sun. As the clear evening bells on the outgoing tide Which tell of the day that is done. Oh, sing me a song of the autumn sear. With her leaves of the burnished gold. When memory seeks for each picture dear And frames them with sighs of old ; sprigs o' Mint When the harvest is gathering in heart and field, And gray hairs are cltist'ring amid the yield — Oh, sing me a song of the autumn sear, The sad twilight time of the heart and the year. Then sing me a song of the drear, wintry hours. When the skies roll in deep, cold and gray, When we long for the sweet of the heart-bloom- ing flowers And the joys of the dream-olden day — Each snow-drop that lingers in sleepy-eyed skies, It seems wafts a message from blest paradise. From loved ones who tread o'er the heav'nly pathway. But I thirst for the theme of the spring-time dream And the angelic breath of the spring-tide flowers. And the orchard so old with its deep sun of gold And the sweet of the childhood's hours ; And I long for the day of the far away. With its joys of the heaven and sun-kissed breeze. When the nesting bird rested her weary wings In the cool of the blossoming trees. 10 sprigs o' Mint THE MEANEST OF THE MEAN. I sat in the parlor of the little country hotel ; the Sabbath morn had kissed the hills with sun- shine and through the valley there was the lull of contentment and peace. The proprietor of the hotel had a sort of monopoly on the business of the town, owning the principal store, the liv- ery stable and the undertaking establishment, and through the half-closed shutters I could hear him and a farmer "striking a trade" for a coffin. The farmer had about a yard of crepe on his hat to let people know that he was mourning, but he seemed to be mourning more over the funeral expenses than anything else. "Ras," said he, "when you buried my fust wife I was in better shape then I am now. I got a little prop'ty from my fust wife, but my last wife has been a clear loss to me, fer she wuz the workin'ist woman that I ever see, an' she wuz so keerful about my intrusts that she went almos' necked to save bills. The pore soul used to look up at me with pride in her heart when we wuz out takin' dinner with some of the nabers, an' say, 'Nobody kin ever say that I have ever been foolish er extravigent in dress ;' an' the naber folks vv^ould look up as much as to II Sprigs o' Mint say, *You don't have to tell nobody that/. That woman had more economy to the square inch than any woman I ever see — everythin' that wuz wuth sellin' went off the farm, an' I got so use to eatin' rancid butter that I didn't like it no other way. Yes, Ras, she wuz economy, an' I know hit would grieve her to cut any extra didoes in the way of funeral expenses." "Well," said Ras, as he took out a short pen- cil and began to make figures on the side of the house, "I kin furnish you a plain varnished, pine, light trimmin' of caliker an' stufidn' of ex- celser, an' give you a ram-up show with the two sorrel bosses fer thirty-two-sixty." "Ras, there hain't no use in talkin' them fig- gers. I can't cut her, as hard run as I am." "Well," said Ras, "if you'll give me twenty- two dollars an' that Jersey sow an' three pigs we'll trade." "Make it the sow and one pig, Ras." "I'll do it if you'll bring them over before the funeral." "It's a trade." "How about a shroud — want a shroud ?" "No, indeed, Ras; no, indeed! Jinnie would feel a dam sight more comfortable if she knowed that she wuz to be laid away in that ol' gingham dress that she wore so long." 12 Sprigs o' Mint THE RETURN OF JOE. Joe's come back — did ye ever hear How he vamoosed off last year ? Said he was tired of the grubbin' hoe An' farmin' Hfe, an' had to go An' git a taste of city Hfe — Took his things, his kids an' wife, Left his hounds in keer of Sis, An' pulled fer Indianapolis. Joe got a job in a lumber yard, The wages small, the work wuz hard. But Joe wuz tastin' city life — The rush, the turmoil and the strife. But as he watched the swirl and swim The golden glamor paled to him. The nabers didn't seem to find Whar he was at, or seem inclined To pass the hours in happy chat ; An' nary dog or nary cat Come brushin' by the kitchen door. An' Joe wuz gittin' sick an' sore, Fer meat wuz high, an' garden truck Warn't free like down in old Kentuck, An' often down the southern sky. He turned a weary, yearnin' eye. 13 Sprigs o* Mint How Joe got back, the good Lord knows. He fetched a few old ragged clothes. His wife an' children — my, how glad To find the same old house they had Before they left — the same old grounds. Joe made a bee-line fer his hounds — He humped it up the highest hill An' felt his heart with, rapture thrill — The same old ridge, the radiant moon, The fox-hound's voice a mellow tune An' time o' day, to hear him yell, 'Twuz like a deep-sea soundin' bell. The river's bosom and the glow Beneath the moon — he loved it so, For old-time mem'ries which it held, His bosom heaved, his bosom swell'd — It was his own, his native stream. The long-lost vision of his dream. An' as he gazed in gladness there His heart had banished ev'ry care. An' he could face the f armin' toil, Fer he wuz on his native soil. An' standin' thar he hollered this — "To h — 1 with Indianapolis !" 14 sprigs o' Mint HAL. THE STORY OF A HOME-SICK HOUND. He was just an ordinary fox-hound, but he came from the famous kennels of Judge Not- tingham, and while a great deal had been expected from him, yet he seemed lacking in every point of his famed ancestors. The chase had but little attraction for him, and when the other members of the pack were making music on the hills, his voice could be heard in a mournful echo bringing up the dismal rear. He loved to bask in the warm sunshine by the serv- ants' quarters, but was always on the alert at feeding time. The winding blast of the hunt- er's horn bore no such sweet music to his ear as the peal of the old farm bell. Old Major Pence stood on his front porch one morning gazing upon the river as it rolled between the hills. "Josh," he called to his old servant, "Josh, that dog don't seem to be any account for anything, so far as I can see." "No, sah. Mars Pence, het doan' seem dat he got no ambishun foh nuthin', 'cept' ter lay aroun' in de sun. I'se knowed lots uv niggahs a IS sprigs o' Mint good deal lack Hal, sah — dey doan' teck no intrus' in any spo't whut hain't got no eatin' in it." "Well, Josh," said the Major, "Joe Jump is coming by here this morning with his family in a covered wagon, on his way to Missouri. He wants me to give him a dog, so give him Hal." Poor Hal, with a dog-chain hooked to his collar and tied to the axle of the wagon, began the long journey. As they went down the wide sandy road which led to the river, Hal turned and cast one long farewell gaze at the old home, — the cool shade of the trees, the old colonial house in all of its old-fashioned majesty and the great towering hills in the back-ground, — and as the ferry-boat came to the shore on the Indiana side, the little ripples gathering on the pebbles seemed to murmur, "Poor Hal, poor Hal !" Then long days through strange scenes and changing country. The family showed him every kindness, and fed him well, but in his eyes there was the depth of sadness. He heard no more the merry songs of the darkies ringing out upon the summer air. He longed for the sound of the big steamers as they rounded the bend and nosed their way into the sombre silence of the sleepy hills, he longed to hear the whip- i6 sprigs o' Mint poor will's serenade again on the banks of the be- loved old stream, and through the long nights when the prairie was softened under the stars his heart was back in the valley and the moon- kissed hills. The covered wagon with its occupants finally arrived at its destination, and for the first time Hal was unchained. The little family was mak- ing preparations to build a home, and Hal stood around and listened to the sound of the saw and hammer and the merry shouts of the children as they ran to and fro through the long wild grass. When the night came and the sweetness of slumber was over the little camp, Hal stood out near the wagon, his eyes searching the eastern sky. The thin white crescent of the moon shot the eastern horizon, — the night wind rustled softly and seemed to breathe the one word — "home." He did not even turn to leave a lingering look of farewell, but with a steady gaze, as if search- ing for some guiding star, he silently passed into the night. On and on he swung, the crisp air lending a bracing stimulant to his blood. A screech-owl snapped and cried from a bush as he passed and he heard a dog howl from some distant cabin. On through the deep night — the stars were getting dim and the moon was gone. 17 Sprigs o' Mint By the banks of a little pool he stopped and lay down to rest his weary limbs, and there he lay all day until the sun was sinking in golden splendor in the west, and then the journey began again, and through the long night he bent his course to the east. At the break of day a timid rabbit crossed his path and Hal had a breakfast. He pressed forward to a spring, which he remembered on the outward journey, and there he slaked his thirst and stretched at full length on the soft earth. His eyes were just closing when he heard some one approaching and heard the sound of voices. Was he being pursued ? He leaped to his feet, his ears standing alert. A setter-dog came running up, but Hal did not wait to get acquainted, and as he left the spring a load of shot whizzed past his head, but Hal had left the unwelcome spot and carefully picked his course the remainder of the day, and through the weary hours his heart was fixed upon one purpose and one spot, and that was home, and the thought gave renewed strength to his ach- ing muscles ; and above all, he began to recog- nize landmarks which told him that it was but a few days' journey to the river country. There were many farmhouses about him, and strange dogs ran out to intercept him, but he passed i8 Sprigs o' Mint them and pushed on. When almost overcome by hunger he slunk around to the back-door of a farmhouse where there were no dogs. A kindly faced woman threw him something to eat, and the ravenous way in which he ate it caused her to give him something more. A man came out of a stable with a rope and said, ''That looks like a good dog, we will tie him up," but Hal saw the rope and made a hurried departure. On, on, until at last he could almost imagine that he could smell the green of the river hills. His feet were swollen and his eyes were bloodshot from hunger and weariness, but, somehow, he felt that it was the last day of the journey, and he limped on, sustained by the one thought of home. The glorious morn was breaking, the purple shadows from the east were melting into the golden russet bars; the violet eyes of the morn were opening, a red-bird sang in a dog-wood tree, and his song filled all the fragrant air with melody. The heavy shadows of the night were lifting under the rosy dawn, and Hal was on the river hills, and there across the river was the old home, the white columns of the porch standing out through the evergreen trees — how sweet, how restful and beautiful to his eyes. Down into the cool waters of the Ohio he made his way. 19 sprigs o' Mint It was the last struggle and bravely did he make it, and as he shook his dripping sides on the Kentucky shore, he gave vent to one glorious yelp of joy, for he was home. "Good Lor', Mars Pence," said old Josh as he knocked at his master's door, "come out hyar, fo' de Ian' sakes !" And as the old Major came out on the porch, he threw up his hands and exclaimed : "Well, bless my soul, if it ain't Hal !" Hal looked up with an appealing glance as the old Major patted him on the head. "Feed him. Josh, and take good care of that dog." And Hal knew that he had come home to stay. 20 sprigs o' Mint THE NEW PIANO. When the new pianer come, Naber gals they played it some, And they'd set an' paw an' thrum Tunes they said the masters played. So they said, but nary time Did th' new keys seem to chime To that good old-fashioned rhyme Of a softer, sweeter grade. Aunt Jemimy come to town, Kinder visitin' aroim,' An' one day she sets her down On the stool an' softly plays "Wakin' up at 'arly morn," An' "The tassel's on the corn" — Bully tunes that jes' wuz born To the joy of other days. Course, her fingers they wuz old, But they had a touch of gold ; An' that new pianer told Jes' how happy youth had been. Naber gals they kinder sneer. An' they don't pertend to hear. But I'll never hoist my yeer Till Jemimy comes agin. 21] Sprigs o' Mint "HERE! LITTLE PONTO, HERE!" Yes, that little dog that's limpin' out there, An' diggin' holes all in the lawn, He does jes' sort as he pleases now Since our little Ted's been gone. 'Twuz strange to me, for I couldn't see How a dog could be so dear, Till I heard the call of that little boy, ''Here! little Ponto, here!" That same little dog, oh ! to see him come With his eyes to meet my gaze, And we set here alone to sadly view The scenes of their joyous plays, An' he looks toward me with a human look As I wipe off the gath'ring tear. An' I fancy he's waiting to hear Ted call, "Here ! little Ponto, here !" When the wind comes up from the river side An' rustles the ivy vines. An' hastens away on its distant course To sigh thro' the heavy pines, Then we sit down here in the deep'ning shade Thro' the turn of the rolling year. An' I'd give my all jes' to hear that call, "Here! little Ponto, here!" 22 Sprigs o' Mint When the dark draws nigh you will find that dog Curled up on the trundle bed, Down close at the foot, where he always slep', Jes' to be near his best friend, Ted ; Yes, that little dog was a friend to him, A friend with a joyous cheer, And our hearts both yearn for that childish voice, "Here! little Ponto, here!" 23 Sprigs o' Mint WHEN OSCAR SMOKES HIS CIGARETTE. Thar he sets, My Oscar with his cigarettes, A-puffin' out th' clouds uv smoke — Sometimes I wish thet he ud choke, Still puffin' thar with both eyes shet. An' thar I set, an' sigh an' sweat, As Oscar smokes his cigarette. He's twenty-one, His school days done. I sent him off to school to learn The better things, an' not these durn Outlandish habits ; you kin bet Old Satan makes me pay a debt When Oscar smokes a cigarette. An' thar he sets, Smokes cigarettes, An' blows the smoke out thro' his nose ; Dressed indirectly in my clothes — I paid fer 'em, the goodness knows ; But what's the diffrunce, I must let The thing go on — he's mother's pet, This Oscar who smokes cigarettes. 24 sprigs o' Mint He blows the smoke in little rings — The cussed things, They look jes' like a hangman's noose; But what's th' use In bustin' loose, An' lettin' out in hard abuse, For mother still is singin' yet As Oscar smokes his cigarette. An' mother still is singin' yet, I'm dreamin' now, my eyes air wet, An' Oscar is a boy agen, An' settin' on my knee, an' then Thar ain't much harm, I reckon now. In smokin' paper, ennyhow, For he's my boy, I love him yet — Say, Os, gimme a cigarette ! 2S sprigs o' Mint THE TRIALS OF OVERMAN. He came into the office just about twilight, and drew a chair close up to the glowing fire, and after he had hung his snow-laden hat on the corner of the mantelpiece, where it could drain off into my overshoes, he said, "How's things?" "Very good," said I ; "how's things with you, Overman?" He gave his arms a little shake, which made his celluloid cuffs rattle, and after he had ad- justed his pea-green cravat satisfactorily he answered, "Bad, Jim, bad !" "How bad. Overman?" As he turned his full face toward me, I caught the overwhelming odor of gin and onions; I moved toward the window and observed, "Yes, things must be getting bad, Overman." "Well, Jim," said he, "I always did have my trials from the time I first learnt to walk for myself, and as I once heard a fellow say, ^if money growed on trees I'd have the rheuma- tism and couldn't climb.' You know the first job I ever got was mud clerk on a steamboat, 26 Sprigs o' Mint and the first bill I made out I put three 'oughts' after the figger i, when the amount was a dol- lar, and the head clerk got funny and said there was a good many things that I 'ought' to learn, and I up and told him that my daddy cert'n'y ought to beat h — 1 out of me for gettin' on a steamboat where they have a club-footed gorilla for head clerk. "I went off at the next landing, and as I walked back thirty miles home I had plenty of time to reflec' how I had busted up my career as a steamboat-man, and the only pair of breeches I had in the fight with the clerk. "Nothin' I have ever did has fulfilled my ex- pectations. I started a small grocery, but the sheriff took me in after I had been good enough to credit everybody in the neighborhood, but there wasn't much left as assets. I remember when the stock was gettin' low one of my old credit customers come in and says, " 'Got any meat, sugar, coffee, or anything in the eatin' line?' " 'Not a thing,' says I. " 'Well, what have you got?' says he. " 'Nothin' but clothes-pins and tooth- brushes,' says I. " 'Well, gimme a dollar's worth of tooth- brushes and charge 'em,' says he. And the next day the sheriff took me in. 27 Sprigs o' Mint "I've always been up agin it, Jim. I never even tried to play a joke but what I got the hot end of it, like as the time I went to Cincinnati to see the Order of Cincinnatus. Every hotel was crowded, but I finally struck a little place, and the clerk says that he give me a room pro- vided I allow anybody to sleep with me who comes in. I took him up, and about two in the mornin' the nigger porter brings up a red-eyed feller who looks like he has been drunk a month, and he begins to undress. I says, thinkin' I would bluff him out, " 'My friend, I don't want to scare you, but I think it best to tell you that I've got the seven- year itch !' " 'That don't make no diffunce,' says he, as he spit on the wall, 'fer I've had it fer two years.' "So, of course, Jim, I had to git out. "But I didn't come here to tell you all these tales of woe, for I could talk to you a month on that line; but I want to tell you just how I've lost the chance of my life of gettin' married to a woman who has a little something in her own name, all on account of a chaw tobacker — a measly, insignificant chaw tobacker. "I needn't tell you how I met her years ago, before she married Tom Childers, who left her 28 sprigs o' Mint a widder and his farm ; but anyhow, my third call was when the thing flickered and convinced me that the best thing I can do is to apply for keeper of the poorhouse, but of course I wouldn't get that. *'You know how these things go, Jim, when a widder is all starched up and ornamented with musk and perfume. It ain't no use for me to tell you how I got along in the new rig I got out of Lawrence & Co. on prospects, but it was a cozy time, the widder laughin' and in the best of humor when I says, "They tell me that you've been a-visitin' over on the pike?" " 'Yes,' says she, 'but visitin' over on the pike ain't what it's cracked up to be, for although you get to see lots of people passin', yet half the time you don't know who they air, and when you do know 'em you don't know where they're goin' to.' "This goes to show you, Jim, the peculiarity of a woman's curiosity ; but all the time that she was laughin' and talkin' I was dyin' for a chew of tobacker, and when the widder rocked back and looked toward the ceiling, I bit off a chaw and told her that yarn about the three-legged mule, and when I finished I found there was nothin' to spit in, and I had to spit, and I went 29 sprigs o' Mint to the door, and when I spit I heard a bulldog growl and whizz around the house and I knowed that I'd hit him close to the eyes, and when I come back the widder says, " Wouldn't you just as soon spit on the stove as on the dog?' and, continued she, ^I've heard it said that a hos: won't eat tobacker.' '' 'Well,' said I, 'a hog won't eat tomaters, either/ " 'That's neither here nor there,' says she, 'but my husband was a man who didn't leave behind a trail of tobacker ambeer and cigar stumps.' "I arose, seein' that the jig was up, and said, 'Cigar stumps and ambeer ain't the only trails I've seen in this world, if I've ever heard any- thing about boss traders and spavined bosses ;' and the widder, knowin' I alluded to her de- parted, bit her lip and told me to git out. The goin' from her was easy enough, but the way I was detained by that bulldog at the wood pile, and the way the widder took sides with him before the fight was over, has convinced me that there is a powerful bond of sympathy be- tween some bulldogs and some widders." 30 sprigs o' Mint OLE MAN HARPER. Ole man Harper's gone to rest, Sleepin' whar the blue-grass blows On the upland's verdant crest Whar the merry daisy grows ; Ten Broeck's slab of marble white Glistens 'neath the golden sun, By the paddock whar the might And glory of his fame begun. Love that race-hoss ? Time o' day ! Harper loved him like a child, And the first quick tremblin' neigh Ringin' from the woodland wild Fell upon ole Harper's yeer Like a strain of music sweet; Wa'n't no music he could hear Like the tread of race-hoss feet. Yes, I saw that four-mile run Down at Louisville in July. Hot? — it seem'd the br'ilin' sun Flamed the clouds along the sky. Ten Broeck, white with lathered foam. Like an eagle cut the air, Brought his colors safely home. Writ his name in history there. 31 Sprigs o' Mint Ole Kentucky saw that day All her native pride retained ; Couldn't hold their joy in sway When they knowed the race was gained- Ole man Harper's gone to rest, Sleepiri' whar the blue-grass blows, Ten Broeck's slab is on the crest Whar the merry daisy grows. 32 Sprigs o' Mint TRUMBO CHEATUM, JOCK. The ebony-hued individual bearing this name first saw the light of day in a cabin on one of the great race-horse farms of the beautiful Blue- Grass country. The old hand-scales of the farm showed his weight at 7 lbs. the day after he was born, and his mother joyously ex- claimed, as she fondly gazed upon him, "Dat boy air sho' bawn fo' a rider!" Those were happy days which followed for little Trumbo, rolling in the shade of the big oaks and strip- ping the clustering seeds of the blue-grass with his short chubby fingers ; and when four years had put his nimble leg's on the run he hung about the stables and watched his father as he groomed the great horses and cared for the youngster thoroughbreds ; and Trumbo' s dad- die was proud of him, for General Carlson, the owner of the farm, had patted the boy on the head and remarked, "He'll make a jockey some day." The years rolled little Trumbo into .the sad- dle at ten, as an "exercising" boy, and his heart was never so glad as when he sat bouncing on the back of a yearling or two-year-old, jogging around the soft spongy track. As he grew 33 sprigs o' Mint older, his mounts became more important, his hand steady, and his judgment in "working out" a horse superb. He never missed a day from the saddle, and he was longing for the happy hour when he would be allowed to ride in a real race before thousands of spectators. Obedient to every suggestion of the trainer, he grew rapidly in favor, and one morning he was informed that he was to ride in the Maiden Stakes at Lexington the following week, and then there was a wild flutter in his heart — he was to wear the orange and green of the Gen- eral's stable, and to ride Miss Nancy, the crack filly of the bunch. The skies hung with a softened blueness that May-day afternoon. The horses came out from the stables, the jockeys mounted and came down by the grand-stand to line up for the start. TrumbO' came last, but he sat calm and easy in his saddle, and there on the grand-stand was the General and his wife and the two girls of the family, who had always been so kind to him. But away over on the end reserved for the peo- ple of his own race, was a face which caught his eye above all others, the eye that beamed love upon him — it was his mammy's face, and as he rode by she called out, "Dar's my boy !" "They're off!" came from a thousand throats, and amid a cloud of dust the bunch 34 sprigs o' Mint went around the first bend. Miss Nancy was not heard from at the first quarter, nor was her name mentioned at the half, and not until they swung around the three-quarter did the orange and green begin to show. But when they came into the stretch. Miss Nancy was reaching for the leading horse, two lengths behind. *'Come on, Trumbo!" the stable boys yelled ; ^'Come on, Trumbol" General Carlson shouted; "Come on, Trumbo !" old black mammy screamed. Trumbo let his whip fall for the first time, and nobly did his mount respond. Miss Nancy's nose was at the stirrup of the leading horse — the wire was but a short distance away — but as they swept under it, Miss Nancy's nose pushed to the front and Trumbo had won. What glory, when he came back to the Judge's stand! The stable boys were there; the General was there, and mammy was fight- ing her way through the crowd, shouting, "Dat's my boy! Dat's my boy!" Trumbo was a jockey now, and winner of his first race. Prosperous days followed, and before the end of two years his name had gained fame, and he was sought by the millionaire race-horse owners of the East. The old farm, the cabin, and mammy were forgotten in the glamor of his halcyon days. At Sheepshead, at Brighton, St. 35 sprigs o' Mint Louis, and Chicago his name was in the fore- most Hst of winners. But the under-tow which wrecks so many of this class was working its way into the vigor and constitution of Trumbo. Late hours and high hving^ — the luxurious desires of an untutored mind, gratified by ample funds ; saff ron-hued damsels to breathe poison into the bending ear; wine to stimulate the waning power of bygone days — from wine to whiskey, from whiskey to cheap gin, and then the dark hour, after dissipation had scattered all its thorns, to hear the words, ^'You are too heavy to ride, your day is done!" Poor Trumbo, drunk and blear-eyed, sought friend after friend, but they knew him not He pawned the few pieces of jewelry left and turned his weary heart toward the spot so long forgotten, and one night, when the moon came swinging above the rolling meadows, he tapped gently on the cabin door. "Who's dat?" came from a familiar voice. "Trumbo, mammy. Tse come home." "Bress Gord, bress Gordl" And as she folded him to her old black bosom, the glory and misery of his feverish career faded from his heart and he slept in the old bed by the south window and dreamed of barefoot days and happy voices at the cabin side. 26 sprigs o' Mint THE OLD GHENT BAND. I've heard Gilmore, and heard Innes, And Dan Gordon's British Guards. I've heard strains of grandest music From the bands of navy yards. I've heard Strauss, and other orchestras From many a foreign land, But the music that first caught me Was the old Ghent band. George Howard played the alto, And Sam Floward played the lead. All of the boys had lusty lungs To give them wind and speed. I can't recall the one just now Who beat the big bass-drum, But who he was, he beat her till She hollered Kingdom Come. And Charley Grey, he played some horn, Fred Schirmer blew the bass, And when Fred blew, a toy balloon Came in his honest face. Some fellow would be trailing About fifteen bars behind. Pretending that he's reading notes. Or something of that kind. Z7 sprigs o' Mint 'Twas "We'll wait for the wagon," And "We'll chase the buffalo." You never heard hot music Till you heard those fellows blow. It seemed a ray from heaven Shot across my boyish soul When those boys would get their wind up And make the music roll. The drums were kind o' flabby, But they swashed 'em just the same, And next day both the drummer's arms Were very sore and lame. And often when the boys would stop To rest and smoke a bit. They'd turn those old horns upside down 'N' they'd leak a barrel of spit. My ! how I used to stand around To hear some fellow say, "Tell all the boys to meet to-night. The band's agoin' to play." And no prayers, or no pleadings Could keep me in that night. I'd skin down the old apple-tree And take my joyous flight. 38 Sprigs o' Mint The boys all now have scattered And the horns are heard no more, And some of those in that old band Have reached the other shore. I'd like to be a boy again, Back in that joyous day. When standing by with raptured ears, I heard that old band play. 39 Sprigs o' Mint WHEN MOLLIE CAME HOME. The other day as I stood gazing toward the distant turn of the hills, where the river bends so gracefully on the vision, I recalled the day, several years ago, when Tommie Donahue stood here, and in his exquisite brogue told me of the home-coming of his wife. Uncle Tom- mie was the most magnificent son of Erin that I ever saw — his voice was deep and rich, and his great black eyes shone with eloquence and ten- derness. Standing with folded arms, he gazed long and earnestly tov/ard the Ohio as it coursed its way so placidly between the hills, and I shall never forget his words. ''Me friend," said he, "Oi niver look upon thot sthrame widout a thrill comin' into me heart, for it brought the dearest happiness me auld heart has iver knowed. Oi'd been wurkin' hereabouts nigh onto sivin years, all the toime layin' a little aside for the little home I wor buildin' for me an' Mollie. Oi heard from her so often in the auld kintry, an' ivery letter wor a-longin' for me, an' at last Oi had the spot of ground an' the house paid for, an' the money was on the way to bring Mollie across the dis- tant sea. Oi had planted all the swatest roses 40 Sprigs o' Mint Oi could get in the little yard — Oi knowed she loved thim so well, an' ivery day Oi added somethin' to the inside of the house to make her heart glad in her new home, an' wan day, there come a letter from New York, an' in a few days I git a tilegraf from Cincinnati that she would be down on the boat that noight. Oi couldn't hould mesilf for joy, an' Oi wor at the Ghint wharf early wid a rinted horse an' spring wagon early a-waitin' for the boat, an' what a glorious noight it wor. The moon samed it wor made for me, an' Oi niver knowed how swate an' millow wor its light befoore, an' the stars wor twinklin' the same as they used to twinkle in the auld days around Kildare, whin Mollie an' me looked into thim wid eyes of love. Oh, iverything come back, an' Oi saw the tinder days whin we clam' the rocks, an' Oi a-holdin' her hand, an' her cheeks as red as the wild rose Oi pinned upon her bosom. An' Mollie wor comin' to me ! Oi walked the shore wid me eyes sthrained on the bind up there — how swate the little waves sounded as they whuspered on the white rocks of the shore, an' ivery murmur wor sayin' 'Mollie.' ''At last I saw a blessed light comin' around the bind, an' Oi heard the paddles of the mail- boat's whale, makin' swate music on the wather, 41 sprigs o' Mint an' it wor music to me. Nearer an' nearer she come, an' her gold hghts that bamed out made her same hke an angel to me, bringin' me a mis- sige of gladness ! An' thin Oi heard her whistle blow, an' it echoed an' echoed among the hills, an' ivery dying note wor sayin', 'Tommie, Oi'm aboord.' An' thin she rounded into the Vavay wharf, an' it samed so long as she lay there takin' on freight, an' jist the river between me, an' Mollie. At last she rung her bell an' swung her nose toward the dear auld Kentucky shore, an' as she come slidin' in on a slow bell, Oi see a little woman wave her han' on the gyards, an' Oi knowed it wor Mollie's face under the little old-fashioned hat! Me heart wor too full to spake, but whin the boat landed we sprung into aich other's arms, an' divil of a wurd we say, but jist wept for joy. "An' the ride home through the moonlight, an' what great joy for her heart whin she stipped inside the dure of her own home, an' as she looked around, wid hiven in her eyes, she says, " 'O Tommie, the good Lord hilt out His hand to me; Oi stepped in, an' He lifted me over the broad sea an' set me down in Pari- dise!'" 42 Sprigs o' Mint NIGGER JESS. In some way he was given the prefix of "Nio-°-er" by the other darkies on the place, possibly owing to the fact that he was such a strange combination mentally and physically. Old Aunt Mandy used to say, "Des' at de time you think dat nigger gwine do suthm foolish he tu'n in an' do suthin' smart ; an des at de time you think he gwine do suthm' smart, he bus' he' thinkin' string an' do suthm dat play de devil ginerally— lack as de time ole Miss sont far him ter wait on de table when Jinny, de reg'ler table gal, wuz sick, an' one cle big lawyers tole a funny story an' meek a funny face, an' Nigger Jess des' slap he waiter agm he' knee an' holler out, 'Gord Ermi'ty! an he whirl he' waiter while he laflen' an' hit ole Mars on de haid, an' ole Mars's son Tomp hafter lunge him out inter de kitchen by de seat uv ne britches, an' arter Jess git inter de kitchen, he Stan' dar an' laff an' lafl lack de fool he wuz an say, 'Gord Ermi'ty ! 'd yaw dat man meek a "Aunt Mandy, won't you ^ tell me about the time Jess joined the circus?" 43 sprigs o' Mint "Lor', honey, I hate ter talk about dat fool nigger ; but yo' see hit wuz dis way. Ole Mars never let Jess go ter town by he'se'f, kase he fear he never git back ; but when de big circus cum ter town, de whole fambly, white an' black, 'cept ole Miss, who stay at home wid her ole brother Oby, lite out fer de circus, an' Nigger Jess des' laffen lack he wuz crazy when he heah de ban's playin' ; but when he git inside whar de animules wuz growlin', yo' would a' died ter see him showin' de whites uv his eyes an' keepin' still. But somehow when de show wuz ovah nobody could fine Jess, an' dat night when we cum home ole Mars say, 'Dat nigger gone wid dat show. I see hit in he' eye.' "Time wen' on an' nobody heah fum Jess, but 'bout a year fum dat time anudder circus cum ter town, an' we all beg Mars ter let us go, an' endurin' uv de perfawmence de ring-mars- ter cum out wid a trick mule an' low dat he give ennybody ten dollars fer ter ride dat mule ; an' mine you, a little black, rusty-lookin' nigger cum slidin' out fum one side de tent an' jumped straddle dat mule, an' when I see dat nig-ger's crooked laigs goin' up in de air ovah de back dat mule, somebody holler out, 'Dat nigger's hired by de show !' an' I say, 'I reckun he is, fer hit's Nigger Jess;' an' 'bout dat time de mule 44 sprigs o' Mint cum 'round close ter whar we wuz, an' I holler out, *Hole tight ter him, Jess ; hole ter him !' an' Jess fergit he' trick an' look ovah tode whar we black folks set, an' dat mule give he'se'f a sorter twis' an' hump an' Jess landed right inter our mi'st an' he holler back ter de ring-marster, ^I'm gwine stay heah ! Teck yo' ole show an' git somebody else ter feed yo' ole hyeeners, fer I'm gwine home !' ^'Yes, sail, home he did go wid us dat night, an' ole Mars say he hafter let him stay, kase, as he say, 'Nigger Jess is a per fee' show he'se'f since he cum back.' "De naix day ole Mars sot out on de front porch an' teck he' big pipe outen he' mouf an' say, 'Jess, air yo' glad ter git back?' an' Jess say, 'Gord, 'Mi'ty, Marse Levi, I reckun I is; fer tain' no fun sleepin' 'round dem animerls, de way dey cut up an' smell. But when dey feed dem animerls an' bastes, an' den feed de niggers, yo' boun' ter see dat a nigger hain't in it wid de bastes, an' hain't got ha'f as much chanct 'roun' a circus as a bob-tailed h3^eener.' 7 J7 45 jrigs o' Mint THE NIGHT IT BLOWED IN GHENT. Yo' ever hear of the night it bio wed, Up in old Ghent beneath the hills; When the dust shot down each country road, An' the gravel flew like leaden pills? Oh ! the night was dark, and the moon was hid, An' the gloom of death hung o'er the town. An' when I passed through with Nigger Skid, The signs was all blowed down. The waves roared down on the river shore, An' lashed and ripped agin the hull Of the old wharf boat, till Matthews swore. An' made for town with a hefty pull, An' the wharf on the Vevay side was sunk. An' the roof sailed over the shiv'ring town. An' all they saved was an old hair trunk — An' the signs was all blowed down. An' over in Ghent, the wind she took A good long grip and chased herself. It whizzed up each alley and garden nook, It rattled the china upon each shelf, An' it blowed Hack Landrum's breath away. An' turned his taste to an ice-cold brown. An' blowed the pump handle to work, they say — An' the signs was all blowed down. 46 Sprigs o' Mint An' it blowed Rip out of a poker game, An' blowed him home to bed, An' it blowed the nip of a lantern's flame Clean thro' the glass, they said. An' it blowed the stink of the old hog pens Clear out to Williamstown, An' it blowed the foxes out of their dens — An' the signs was all blowed down. Ye dads ! 'twas a twister of a storm, An' it made one duck to think. How it blowed a mortgage from a farm, An' a man who was full of drink, An' layin' twix' Unser's an' Tandy's wall, It whizzed him an' buzzed him aroun', Till it landed him up at Good Templars' Hall— An' the signs was all blowed down. An' I asked John Harper at early morn, Next day when the sun rode high. If ever at all since he was born Did he hear wind rip the sky ? An' John shoved a checker across the boards An' answered with semblance of a frown, "Oh, she ripped and reared, an' moaned an' roared — An' the signs was all blowed down." 47 sprigs o' Mint BLACK SAMMY. He was just a little pickaninny coon, his greasy face and kinky head forming a picture against the hazy sky. He looked so forlorn and lonely sitting there on the old beech log, gazing out upon the river. His black little hands held the battered remains of a tin toy horn. As I came up I noticed that he was cry- ing, and when I asked, ^'What's the matter, Sammy ?" he turned for a moment, and such an expression of wretchedness on his face as he answered, ''Mammy's gawn, an' bin gawn all day." He brushed the tears away and strained his eyes again trying to catch a glimpse of mammy, but mammy was not in sight, and Sammy was inconsolable, and hugged his little horn closer, and cried in a softer tone. As I turned to go I saw a woman coming down the hill carrying a basket on her head. It was Sammy's mammy, and as she turned the corner he, too, saw her, and it would have done you good to see the joyous light which came into his eyes — the beam of happiness on his face. The clouds had left the sky, and one glorious gleam of gladness shot athwart the soul of little black Sammy. 48 sprigs o' Mint WHEN BLOOD WASN'T SHED. "Wal," said Uncle Bill, as he laid down the paper, *T see whar the Northern papers is crackin' at Old Kentucky agin about the little differences we have down hyar, an' frum what they say, they must think that we go out every mornin' an' kill a man jes' fer an appetizer. "Sometimes these things strike me as funny, I have been livin' hyar for sixty year, an' I have seen a heap of fighters, an' I have seen a heap of so-called fights where it was all bluff. You remember that mowin'-machine agent who was hyar last summer, — the one who cussed the blizzards out of Tom Stevenson for misplacin' some of the parts of his machine, — an' how Tom goes off to borrow a revolver to shoot the livin' lights outen him; but as he comes back by the store he inquires whar the machine man comes frum, an' Buck Gaines says, ^He comes frum Illynois, but was raised up at Mt. Sterlin', Kentucky.' An' Tom kinder turns white an' says, 'Well, hit's a good thing that he weren't a durn Yankee that cussed me that way, or he'd a shorely had to die.' Tom had business over 49 sprigs o* Mint tode the station an' didn't come back till the machine man had gone. I mention this jes' to show you that the flaver of the sile has some- thin' to do with it — his birth-place has a good deal of bearin' on his general fiehtin' perclivi- ties, an' I have seen some of the wust feared men at home git up an' carry the mail in strange diggins. ''Fightin' in an' around home comes natch- eral, I reckun, whar a feller knows he has got ter run fer office some day, or be referred to as a honored citizen when he is gone. "I never will fergit the time when I went out to eat Thanksgivin' dinner with Larry Sanders, an' after dinner, Larry takes me out over the place to show me the general run of things. We passed by a cedar tree enclosed with a brick wall. " 'Who's buried thar ?' I asked. " 'Uncle Jack's grave,' says Larry, with a kinder sneer. 'He was a good fiddler before he went off to the Mexican war, an' the boys said he was always in the front at every charge, but he comes back here an' let a little hard-shell, consumptive preacher spit in his face because he rediculed his way of preachin'. Uncle Jack said, bein' he was a preacher an' in bad health, was all that saved him ; but Uncle Jack seemed to pine away an' kinder lost faver in the com- 50 sprigs o' Mint munity, but claimed he had gained faver in the sight of the Lord ; but you see he hain't got no tombstone over his grave !' ''But speakin' of these hyar references to the old State in the papers, it hain't no use denyin' that if you are lookin' fer trouble, you don't hafter look long ; but it hain't all the time that the fuss of big pistols and flash of steel means that clear cold grit has come to speak. But I shorely do believe that when a man comes right out an' says, '1 am not a fightin' man,' in the face of insult, and hangs out his sign as a cow- ard, he has a mighty lonesome time of it Fightin' hyar in Kentucky is kerried on jes' about with the same intrust an' enthoosiasm as in other States, prob'lv with a little difference as to action and style, an' mebbe with more de- termination as to general finish ; but I have seen some of the biggest scrimmages started hyar when I thought that a dozen men would be killed, an' they'd end without a gallus bein' busted. "Who of you don't remember the barbecue down at Cox's? You remember when old Thomps Fisher was makin' a speech an' Jim Winfield hollers out the lie. You heerd the clickin' of pistols all around then. Old Thomps turns white an' grabs a board an' smashes it over Jim Winfield' s head, an' at the same time 51 Sprigs o' Mint somebody hits old Thomps over the back with a rail. Old Thomps kinder grunts, but hell was flashin' from his eyes, an' he steadies hisself and clinches with Monroe Travis, who he thought hit him. They was two of the biggest an' fat- test men in the county, an' it was a grand sight as they rolled an' pounded on the soft ground, an' finally they rolls into the dry bed of the creek bottom, whar the men had cleaned Liie sheep before barbecuin' them; an' as Thom.ps an' Monroe rolls over the bank, they comes smack-dab onto the leavin's of the sheep, an' Monroe, reachin' his hand under him, feels the sheep entrils, an' hollers out, 'Take him off, he's cut my innerds out!' Monroe gits up, holdin' to the sheep entrils, an' moanin', *Git a doctor, boys, he's ripped me open !' Somebody hollers out, 'You hain't cut, drap them sheep guts !' An' Monroe looks foolish an' says. The drinks air on me, boys.' "Ev'rybody makes friends that day, an' Thomps an' Monroe shuck hands an' drinked outen the same gourd. Monroe beat old Thomps an' went to the legislature, an' got through all right with jes' one fight, an' that was when a little feller from centril Kentucky asked him if they raised much sheep down in his diggin's, and Monroe hit him an' got a crack in the eye before matters was explained. 52 Sprigs o Mint "No, as I said before, it depends a whole lot on your surroundings an' who your wife's peo- ple was when it comes to fightin', an' if them Northern papers would send a good man down hyar, they'd find these hyar people as much agin fightin' as anybody; but if I'd see a Yankee gittin' up anythin' agin us to write, as much as I value my reputation fer peace an' religion, I'd take a shot er two at him myself. "Gimme a pound of Arbuckle's coffee, I must git home." 53 >rigfs o' Mint GONE TO TEXAS. Old Aunt Bet has gone to Texas ; Uncle John went with her there — Mighty sad to see them leavin', With their white and silvered hair. Seems fer years they've been a-driftin' Round with kinfolks in Kaintuck Till they kinder wore their welcome, And they've gone to live with Buck. Buck lives down below Galveston On a sheep ranch, so they say, And he written, sent the money. And they left the other day. When they left down at the station. Kinder waved a sad farewell. Aunt Bet drawed her little kerchief. Tried to ketch the tears that fell. Settin' there beside each other, Gazin' through the winder pane, Kinder holdin' hands together, Waitin' fer the startin' train That was goin' to bear them onward From the scenes of happier years. All the old friends left behind them — That was shorely time for tears. 54 sprigs o' Mint Lord, to think what Uncle John had In what's called his pammy days ! Hogs and hosses, sheep and cattle By the hundreds used to graze On his blue-grass — and the mansion Was a palace with its cheer. Never was a time when kinfolks Wasn't visitin' him out there — Just to hear the shouts and laughter When they'd scooped in many a dram, And had gormandized his victuals. Now they ain't a-keerin' a d — m If old John has gone to Texas — Only feered that he won't stay Out there. Oh, there ain't much welcome When you're pore and in the way. Old Aunt Bet has gone to Texas, Took her trinkets all along; Old hair trunk held all their baggage. Old trunks they ain't very strong, And if them rough baggage-smashers Bust that trunk upon the track. All the money of the railroad Couldn't bring its contents back. There's the little shoes and stockin's Of their little girl who died; 'Twas the first one of their heartlove. Golden hair and sunny-eyed. 55 Sprigs o' Mint And the trinkets saved for ages, Handed down through changing years, Old daguerreotypes of loved ones Who had left this vale of tears. Aunt Bet's shawl was kinder threadbare When she made the journey's start, But that boy way down in Texas, With his big and manly heart. He will fold his arms around her And her dear old soul will know That there's sunshine down in Texas And that Buck has made the glow. Old Aunt Bet has gone to Texas, Uncle John went with her there ; May the Lord bring comfort to them. With their white and silvered hair. 56 sprigs o' Mint MARTIN BOLAN. How well do I remember the swarthy, weather-tamied face under the old white hat, and the great broad shoulders, the powerful arms and deep chest of my old-time friend, Martin Bolan, the ferryman; and from out the memories of the dear river scenes he stands out as the happiest remembrance of those happy days. I can see him. now, coming along the shore, crunching the gravel in his great strides, and chopping out the chorus of some old folk- lore song; and as he swings the big ferry oar over the side of the boat the muscles of his neck swell into huge knots and he stands the perfec- tion of manly strength and health; and his heart set in that majestic frame was in keeping with the big constructive scale of his being — warm emotions nestled there, kindness and courage locked hands over the portal of his bosom; the music of a baby's voice stirred the depths of his rugged soul. The most charm- ing of nature's poems to him were the river and the sweet green hills, for with these around him he had grown to manhood, and they had been interwoven into the very spirit of his youthful dreams. 57 Sprigs o' Mint Ah, the happy days when I caught his big rough hand and wandered with him under the tall sycamore trees and among the rocks, where we would sit and gaze far down to the south- ward where the blue sheen of the Ohio lost it- self in the great bend of the sombre hills, and on sunny days when the breeze wandered on the northern track, he gave me the rudder of his staunch-made boat, and drawing the white sheets taut to the wind, we would speed away together and explore the hidden beauties of the murmuring creeks and little islands which dot- ted the stream. He knew the river as the petrel knows the sea, and whether in the May-day calm or in winter's chilling blast, he stepped into his boat with the same calm reassurance, and whether at oar or sail he was the same steady master of his calling. One night when the waves were rolling high on the stream we sat in the office-room of the old hotel which stood on the bank of the river. A cheerful log-fire crackled in the fire-place. Martin sat in the corner puffing at a cob-pipe, his long legs stretched before the fire. I was a mere lad and sat drinking in the tales of the old river days, — of steamboat races and wrecks, — and I never grew weary of Martin's descrip- tion of the great disaster to the United States 58 Sprigs o' Mini and America, which occurred but a few miles up the river, and Martin had many rehcs of that awful night. Suddenly we were startled by the loud cry of ''hello" from outside, and when the door was opened, a young man and woman came into the office. They had hurriedly got- ten out of a buggy and both seemed very much agitated, and the young man lost no time in informing us that they were eloping from a neighboring county and were being hotly pur- sued by an angry father and brother. My gaze was fixed on the young woman, for never before had I seen such a beautiful face and such lustrous dark eyes ; and lit up with the flame of love, they seemed to shed a glow upon the dingy walls of the old room. ''Where can I find the ferryman ?" asked the young man. "I am the ferryman," said Martin ; "but you can't cross the river to-night, the wind is too high." "But we must cross !" said the young fellow, as a wild glance shot from his eye. "I'll give you ten dollars to set us over." "I'm feer'd to resk it," began Martin; but just at this point the beautiful young woman went up to him, and with a smile which seemed to melt into the very soul, softly said, 59 sprigs o' Mint "I am not afraid. Won't you take us ?" Martin hesitated for a moment and then turned and asked, "Who'll go with me?" "Let me go, Martin," said I, never thinking of danger if Martin was to go. "Can you hold the rudder ?" he asked as he turned and looked at me. "I'll hold it, Martin." Down to the shore we went, the sweet woman calm and undisturbed, the man at her side shiv- ering and uneasy. The wind was blowing a gale and the waves were beating angrily upon the shore. After several efforts, Martin launched the boat. The spray and water came, drenching the young woman, but she quietly took her seat. "Hold her dead on Ogman's hill !" yelled Martin to me. The wind bellowed into the stout sail and we shot into the foam. Martin was near me and I felt no fear. "Keep her quartered, with stern to the wind, and don't give her a chance to sheer!" "Is there much danger?" asked the bride- groom as his teeth chattered. Martin did not answer him, but yelled to me, "Hold her steady and fast." "I'm tryin' to," said the groom, clutching his fair companion closer. 60 Sprigs o' Mint "I wasn't talkin' to you," said Martin. We were nearing the Indiana shore. Martin shouted to me, "Turn her down a few points, then Hft her out on the shore," and beautifully did we mount high on the pebbled beach. Martin turned to me, saying, "We'll not go back to-night." We went to the hotel. The proprietor found the county clerk and a minister, and there in the little parlor we saw our passengers take the marriage vows, and the bride kissed me, and I began to hate the groom for stealing such an angel. "Wasn't he scared comin' over?" I said to Martin as we went to bed. "Yes, but wimmen alius has the best grit when it comes to a showdown, an' mebbe if she had been ketched by her dad she'd a had to die an ole maid," said Martin as he put out the light. I slept with my arm about Martin's neck and dreamed of the wild surging billows and the angry wind, but through it all there came the sweet vision of those soft, beautiful eyes and that heavenly kiss upon my cheek. The next morning" when we started to the river, Martin slipped a five-dollar gold piece into my hand. "He give me two of them, an' 6i sprigs o' Mint one of them belongs to you," said Martin; and in my joy I forgave the groom for all of his fright. Dear old Martin. I never thought that dis- ease would attack that powerful constitution, but last year when I went back to the old scenes they showed me his grave in the little cemetery on the hill, overlooking the stream which he loved so well. Some kind hand had planted a V\^illow branch on his mound, and it was grow- ing and spreading to shade the resting-place of his dear and noble heart. 62 sprigs o' Mint A SONG OF CARROLL. There's a county dear That is full of cheer As the sunlight of the morn, Where the latch string's long — ■' Oh, I'll sing a song Of the place where I was born, Up in dear old Carroll. Then take me back to the rock-ribbed hills, With the valleys green and fair, Where the blue of skies Makes a paradise — Oh, my heart still longs for there, Up in dear old Carroll. I must see the stream 'Neath the sun's gold gleam And the waters gently flowing ; I must hear the birds With their chattering words In the morning's early glowing. Up in dear old Carroll. 'Tis a pleasing thing In the balmy sprine, When the pulse of nature thrills, 62 sprigs o' Mint To see some boy with his plow and mule On the crest of the bloom-tipped hills ; And the world below With its weal and woe Is a phase of itself apart, And he sings a song As he lags along, 'Tis a song of nature's heart. When the day is done And the crimson sun Has sunk into the w^est, When the sweet full moon Comes a-rising soon To smile on the river's breast; When the whippoorwill On the distant hills Sings day song-birds to sleep. And the stars swing high In the silvered sky And their silent vigils keep, Up in dear old Carroll. Then take me back to the rock-ribbed hills. With the valleys g-reen and fair. Where the blue of skies Makes a paradise — Oh, my heart still longs for there. Up in dear old Carroll. 64 ss o SONG OF WHIPPOORWILL. That whippoorwill I hear singing his monot- onous serenade over on the Indiana hills is a strange sort of bird. Did you ever run across one of them ? I have come upon them occa- sionally, perched in some very dark and secluded spot. They are a little larger than a rain-crow, with a speckled breast, and from the way they hang around in daytime and sneak out at night, to ''sing the stars asleep behind the break of dawn," you would mark them as out- casts among all other birds. The darkies used to tell me that if you heard one singing in your yard it was a sign of death, and that if you killed one of them its mate would come back to ''hant" you. But all of this talk doesn't seem to bother old Whippo — he clothes himself with his own grand, gloomy and peculiar glory and pours forth his soul on nights when skies are set for lutes and lovers — and his name for ages has been interwoven mid love-songs and romance, and he has at least done his part in mellowing and keeping alive the breath of tenderer senti- ments and possibly the tenderest memories of other years, to those whose aged hearts live sweetly in the dear sunshine of younger mem- ories. 65 sprigs o' Mint What beauties and what glories of the night he tells us of — adown the stream some steamer comes wending her way from Southern waters and pushing her nose into the sleepy silence of the sombre hills — the sky is merry with the glis- tening stars, and as I turn again toward the heavenly dome, the beautiful text of Job comes to me, ''Canst thou bind the secret influences of the Pleiades or loose the bands of Orion?" So sing on, bird of the heaven-kissed night — sing on as the moon, sweet regent of the sky, swings on in radiant splendor — sing on and let your song float above the graves of the dear departed ones, whose spirits soar beyond the dreaming stars — sing on until the purple flush of dawn bursts o'er the green of the summer hills, and all this beauteous valley wakes the golden gladness under the opening eyelids of the morn. 66 Sprigs o' Mint A KENTUCKY "LAST LEAR'^ I met him one morn When he had a fine "horn" As long as your long left arm, And his cheek was aglow Like a rose in the snow, And his breath, it was fragrant and warm ; And he juggled his cane Like a spry country swain, And his manner was sweet in its charm. And I met him once more When the sun cantered o'er The gloom of the gray morning sky ; Ah, his back it was crook'd. And he said as he looked, "Gad, my boy, I am ready to die. For the future seems short When you yearn for a snort" — Then a tear-drop bespangled his eye. And I met him again With his drum-major cane. And I knew by his juicy, sly winks That the flush of the dawn Had bestowed his joy on 67 Sprigs o' Mint In the shape of a couple of drinks ; And he said as he look'd, "Gad, my boy, I'm book'd, For a round hundred years, by Jinks !" 68 Sprigs o' Mint THE UPS AND DOWNS OF G. WASH- INGTON BROWN. That name would, seemingly, carry with it a huge store of dignity, embodiment of merit and achievement, and while I am not sure, yet I believe, in a measure, that it played some part in the rapid rise of the hero who bore it. Grant Washington Brown sprang into bud- ding manhood with but a vague knowledge of parental ties. There had always been a deep and outspoken prejudice for him in the hearts of the colored denizens of the river village, because he was *'so smart and so black," and the mystery of his 'loud" clothes and gaudy jewelry hung exasperatingly over the ill-attired coons who shoveled coal and earned their bread by hard toil. I frequently found myself wondering how this ebony genius managed to revel in luxurious ease, but a passing incident gave me the secret of his system. I was going home late one night from the office, and just as I turned the corner, I saw Grant standing under the arc-light, and he quickly stooped and picked up some glitter- ing object. He seemed to be enveloped in an atmosphere of uneasy innocence, and as I came 69 Sprigs o' Mint up he held up what appeared to me as a brilliant diamond shirt-stud. ''Whut's dis hyar thing I jes' foun' ?" he asked me. The spirit of avarice was mounting within me, and I thought it could be no harm to mislead an ignorant nigger. My eyes gleamed woliishly on the stone- — a diamond shirt-stud! I had dreamed of owning one all of these years — the electric rays fell upon it, and it flashed in splendor. "Hit woan' do fer me to be foun' wid dis hyar thing on me/' said Grant. "What will you take for it?" I eagerly asked. "Gimme six dollars fo' it." I could rake out but $5.35, but I passed it over to Grant and hastened home, where I hid the gem under my pillow and dreamed of a stiff-bosomed shirt, and my sun-burst diamond radiating from its center. I drew it forth the next morning, and with a sigh I laid it down — it was the cheapest ten-cent piece of glass and tin-foil that I had ever seen, and it dawned upon me then why G. Wash. Brown had been so particular in holding it in one certain posi- tion under the arc-light. I came upon him in a few days, and tried to show my contempt by a piercing glance, but his countenance lit up and as his eyes beamed in a self-satisfied roll he lifted his hat and said, "Good-mawnin', sah !" 70 Sprigs o' Mint I kept the secret locked in my bosom — he knew I was ashamed to tell it. I heard of the machinations of G. Wash. Brown frequently after this episode. He bought a whole stock of cheap rings and pins with his ill-gotten gains from me, and he proceeded to visit the neigh- boring towns, where he caught them coming and going, now and then playing his old game of finding lost jewelry on the street. There wasn't a sucker in the county who hadn't been fitted out with gew-gaws of brass, and the country swain, making his first venture in the game of love, sallied forth resplendent in Grant's flashing gems. Grant was safe from the spleen of his victims, and no matter if some fair maid returned the tarnished and blackened remains of some neck- lace or ring to her mortified lover, it would have been more humiliating for the report to have crept out that it had been purchased from Grant. That worthy Afro-American was steadily rising and blooming out into gaudy fashions and higher ambitions all the while, but as ambi- tion destroyed great men in ages gone by, so it swept Grant into obscurity and ruin. He came back from the city, on one occasion, with three or four brass watches, and unfortunately worked one of them off on old Judge Snodgrass, when 21 Sprigs o' Mint the Judge was in his cups, and when the Judge got sober he brooded over the matter and swore eternal vengeance on that coon. You could smell the brass on the watch and the Judge said that it ''run back'ards." A cheap jewelry store was broken into one night, and nearly everything was cleaned up. ''S'arch Wash. Brown, — s'arch that nigger/' said Judge Snodgrass. Wash, was searched. They did not find any of the goods on his per- son, but in his room they found nearly a peck of watches and rings in his bed-tick — they found cuff-buttons and breast-pins by the dozens in his old hair-trunk, they found "diamond" shirt- studs in his carpet-sack and they found cheap jewelry everywhere. Poor Wash., he looked on as they brought forth the hidden treasure, and all that he would say was, "I mus' er stole 'em walkin' in my sleep." Judge Snodgrass prosecuted him, and the Judge never rose to sublimer heights than when he pictured the woe and chagrin which this creature had brought on humanity. I wanted to applaud, for I had not forgotten some that he had brought on me, but when the Judge in- advertently said, ''Think of the poor, ignorant damn fools that he has defrauded," I thought that he was going too far. Grant went to Frankfort wearing a new pair of "bracelets," 72 sprigs o' Mint and the only objection he expressed for them was that "they didn't shine much." I was passing through the penitentiary with the warden one autumn day. I saw a famiHar face at one of the machines, — the whites of the big eyes were rolling on me, — I went up and took his hand, and how happy he seemed to see me. "Grant, what made you steal all that jewelry?" "I 'lowed to go to Bolden Green an' start a store," he answered. "Are you sorry for it all now. Grant?" "I'se suttn'y sorry for one thing, an' dat is skinnin' ole Judge Snodgrass wid dat brass watch — I'se been sorry fo' that many a time; ef I hadn't skint him, he'd never had me ketched." 7Z sprigs o' Mint OLE BULL FRORG. Down whar de willers line de bank, An' de mud is slick 'roun' de ole drif -wood, Ole buU-frorg stay, an' he sing ''pank, pank," An' he 'low to he'se'f, ''Dat's sho'ly good." An' he sing a song, 'twuz a song er love. An' hebeller deep an' he beller strong — Ole turkle riz an' he made a shove Inter de crick an' he says, ''So long." An' de skrick-owl kinder shet one eye An' say, ''Mister Frorg, when you git thru I'll sing yer a ole-tam lullabye," An' de ole frorg say, "I'm damn, 'f you do. "I hain't no han' fer to cock my yeer Fer yo' flap- jack songs, er enny thing Dat's bustin' out, 'cep' what I hear Cum f'um dis log, an' what I sing." An' de whipperwill he spread he' tail An' he say, "Yo' ole curnseeted fool, I'd ruther hear de skrick-owl wail Er de hong-ke-haw uv a dad-burn mule." 74 Sprigs o' Mint But ole Mister Frorg he raise he' han' An' he kinder spread hit on he' nose, An' he say, "Hit's plain to understan' Youse jelkis clean down to yer toes. ''An' I doan' sing f um de wavin' tree, But sings my songs f'um the murky bog. Hit mout seem strange, but yo' boun' ter see Dat a frorg song satisfies a frorg." An' ole Mister Frorg, he wan't so wrong, Fer I'se heerd folks beller like a steer. 'T'ud make yo' sick to hear de song', But, honey, 'twuz to de singer's yeer. 75 Sprigs o' Mint A TOUCH OF HIGH LIFE. Sometimes, when business is good, the Httle fish here break away from the confines of the cafes, and tough steaks, and "take a whirl and learn bon-ton and see the wurl'." Arrayed in my best bib and tucker, I shoved my feet under the table, with a friend in a hotel where dwell the rich and those of high degree. On the table just across from us vv^as a bunch of flowers as large as a Christmas tree, and I knew that they were waiting, with their glad smiles, for the presence of the gorgeous grand. We had just finished the little-neck clams and the consomme when the party arrived. A little, subdued-looking old man in evening dress came first ; he was followed by a bulging lady of some fifty summers. In polite parlance, you would have called her stout, but she was fat, and pow- erful fat at that. I caught a whiff of "lily of the valley" perfume as she swept, with a queenly air, into her seat, but she struck me as a sort of red queen to a black sequent flush. With them was a young man, quiet and studi- ous looking, who seemed possessed of a wealth of brains, but considerably awed in the presence of the mighty coin. ye Sprigs o' Mint The stout party had given every attention to the arrangement of her costume and toilet, pos- sibly with the exception of a shave, as there was a sort of scattered fuzzy growth on her chin — strong muscular force and constant action oft- times produce these things. The superannu- ated looking individual, presumably her worser half, tucked his napkin under his chin, as if he were being prepared for the guillotine, and they went into the bill of fare. *'Git some of that consomme chiffonade, or whatever you call it, Dan," said the stout lady. Dan heard her, everybody heard her, and she wanted them to turn and see who was talking. Dan meekly ordered for three, but I noticed that when Dan ordered anything which had a French handle or tail to it, he merely laid his finger on the card and looked up at the waiter. "When did you hear fum Kitty, Harry?" asked the stout party of the young man, as a blue-point slipped off of her fork and went scoot- ing dow^n the wide expanse of rolling sward. 'T always knowed that you was dead in love with that girl, and it's a pity that she was so pore — her folks never did have no shift, but just loved books and art and all that sort of thing that don't git no diamonds and brown-stone fronts. I didn't keer fer these things when I was grow- in' up, and Dan here didn't monkey with them sprigs o' Mint — he was too busy at the foundry, but our gal got all of it in Yoo-rap, and we worked her in- to jest about as good a social standing as any- body gits nowdays, and when we was over the last time, Dan run across a feller who traced up that we had come f'm some of the old families over there, and said that my great-grandfather was a great man." "As Sir Roger De Coverly said at the Abbey," put in the youngf man, "of Dr. Busby, 'he was a great man, he whipped my grand- father.' " "I don't know of Coverly (here waiter, bring me some of that imperial punch and lobster salad) ; you know lobster salad always makes me dream in my sleep that I have been laid out and buried." "Ah," said the young man, "I suppose that is what made Paul Richter call sleep 'the ante- chamber of the grave.' " "I don't know anything about ante-chamber, but I do know what a bully thing sleep is, if you have a good mattress and good piller. Dan, did you send that hundred dollars to the 'Piscopal minister? We want to curry favor with him — it will help us socially." Dan roused himself at this point and flicked a wad of cranberry sauce off of his shirt front. He seemed to feel th^^t it was up to him to "do 78 Sprigs o' Mint a turn," and he rubbed his hands together, and after a few feeble chuckles, he said : "Speaking of preachers, did you ever hear about that old preacher who 'lined out' the hymn ? It was long years ago, when they 'lined out' hymns. He got up and took the hymn book and said, 'My eyes are getting very dim ; I scarce can see to read the hymn.' The con- gregation sang- after the old man, 'My eyes are getting very dim,' etc. The old man looked up and said, 'I did not mean to sing the hymn; I merely said my eyes were dim,' and the congre- gation took it up, T did not mean to sing the hymn,' etc." After Dan had finished this antiquated joke he broke out into a spasmodic splash of laugh- ter, but the stout lady turned to him and said, "Dan, you are makin' a fool of yourself — ever- body's lookin' at you." "Let 'em look," said Dan ; "they ain't payin' my board." The better-half at this point gave him a Russo-Japanese look, and he quieted down and went back into his shell, and the stout party resumed absolute sway. We were down to the Roquefort cheese and coffee — the feast was over and we trailed out into the sloppy night ; but as I turned homeward I got to thinking of my old friend, Sam Bland, down in Kentucky, 79 sprigs o' Mint and a dinner which he told me about giving to his brother in New York. Said he : ''You know, I always take my cattle to New York by the carload, and the last time I went I took my brother Henry along. Henry, as you know, has always been hard run, and when I asked him to go along he said, 'Sam, how will Molly and the children git along while I am gone ?' 'Take this fifty dollars,' said I, 'and tell them to have a good time.' Well, we got thar all right, and after I had sold my stock I said, 'Henry, le's go down to the Waldorf-Astoria and git a good meal of vittels.' When we got thar the waiter handed me the bill of far'. I looked it over an' couldn't make heads nur tails, for it was French, Dutch and three or four languages. I handed it to Henry an' says, 'Henry, you order,' but he says, 'Dog-skinned if I didn't leave my specs in my satchel.' I looked around me an' see a distinguished-lookin' man settin' at a table nigh us, an' I says to the waiter, 'Go over thar an' see what that man is goin' to eat,' an' the waiter comes back an' says, 'That is Mr. William K. Vanderbuilt, an' he is goin' to eat a small piece of toast an' a poached G^gg.' I say, 'No wonder, a man ought to git rich who don't eat any more than that.' I took the bill of far' an' said, 'Waiter, bring me down to thar,' pullin' my finger down about half way 80 jrigs o' Mint the bill, and you ought to seen what that waiter brought in — chicken with paper pants on the legs, all sorts of meats an' vittels, with bokays an' flowers, an' two bottles of wine, an' the wine begin to work on Henry right away, an' as we et along I see Henry begin to swell up an' look like he had horse-reddish in his eyes, an' I says, ^Don't the vittels suit you ?' an' he kinder sniffles an' says, 'Yes, but I wish I had Mollie an' the children here,' an' I says, 'Damit, don't spile the feast; Mollie an' the children air doin' all right.' He kinder cheers up, an' begins to stack up a pile of bones an' scraps around his plate, an' purty soon I see him begin to slop over ag'in, an' I says, What's grindin' you now?' an' he rakes out a puddle of tears an' says, 'By grab, Sam, if I jest had my hounds here to eat these scraps.' I never see a man cry so over a good meal, an', as I was a-goin' to say at the outset — you kin never tell what people will do when they suddenly git up in high life." 8i sprigs o' Mint FIDDLIN' FARLEY. Down whar the river sweeps along, Down whar the south-wind sighs its song, An' willows bend to murm'rin' stream ; Down whar the rugged hills loom high Agin the blue of changin' sky — The wild-duck's joy and fisher's dream. Old Farley's hut stood on the bank, An' sorter hidin' in the shank Of river bend, thar Farley stayed An' tended to the guv'ment light. Blind as a bat, he lost his sight Back in the war, on Morgan's raid. An' Farley's gran'son lived with him, A hawk-face lad by name of Tim. He filled the lamps an' done his turn About the place, till pay-day come, Then went fer booze an' got so bum He wasn't wuth a tinker's durn. But Farley loved him an' he knowed The boy's hard luck, an' how he'd growed Without a mother's tender care, An' though he'd never seen his face, Yet, somehow, in his heart a place Retained his image fondly there. 82 sprigs o' Mint But Tim was dear in sober clays, An' jes' to hear that couple raise Their voices in some old-time song Up thar alone upon the hill — It seem'd the very stream stood still To ketch the tune that rolled along. An' Farley's fiddle, how she'd ring! The melody would leap an' spring Upon the stillness of the night, An' strange to me, hit always seem That music floatin' o'er a stream Awakes the stars an' heaven's delight. An' many a time, when nights was fine, I've set there in my yankee-pine. An' drifted 'round about the shore. An' listen'd to blind Farley play The sweetest tunes that stole away The care from out yer bosom's core. 'Twas always night to Farley's eyes. The sunset's glow, the blue of skies Ne'er beamed above the river's brim For Farley, but he dreamed of these. An' in the wand'rin', lispin' breeze He heard the chords of nature's hymn. 83 Sprigs o' Mint In fishin' days, at early shine Of mornin' when I traced my Hne, I've heard old Farley's fiddle start To gladness with the voice of Tim. The birds all seem'd to jine with them In waftin' joy across the heart. I hain't much hand to tell of things Where sorrow or misfortune clings, An' well would I ferg-it that nig-ht When Tim got drunk an' stayed in town. An' through the rain that pelted clown Blind Farley groped to hang the light. The stream was runnin' full an' high Up to the bank, an' bellow' d by With angry surge an' leapin' wave, An' Farley missed the ladder's hold — A piteous cry, then dark an' cold The billows oped his watery grave. They found him in the noon-day calm. The south-wind's sympathetic balm Of fragrance crept 'neath soften'd skies An' linger'd like a v hisp'rin' prayer About his body layin' there. An' kissed the swollen, sightless eyes. 84 Sprigs o' Mint He's sleepin' up there on the hill. His fiddle hangs so lone an' still Upon the white-washed cabin wall ; The sweetness of its voice is gone, No more at rosy-tinted dawn 'Twill blend in with the robin's call. But somewhar up above the skies, In golden fields of Paradise, Old Farley sings amid the blest, An' God of All has let his sight Beam open on the guv'ment light That gleams above the Stream of Rest. 85 Sprigs o' Mint BILL BOLES, OF THE STEAMBOAT BAND. Bill Boles, just a common old countiy name, But it set to a turn on Bill, And Bill never hankered for rounds of fame As he clum up life's rugged hill. He'd tried at farmin' — had tried and failed; Tried makin' whisky — was six months' jailed; Then fired a freight till his hands was scaled. Then he quit, for that was too tame. Bill Boles was a failure, as failures go, ^'But," he said, as he slinked his eye, "I might er be gittin' thar kinder slow. But I'll git thar yet bye an' bye." But there was one thing Bill Boles could do, xA.s no one else, I will say to you — Could play a fiddle, a bass one ; few Could swing such a hefty bass bow. He'd play in a band, or he'd play alone, And he'd git up at night to play. And he'd draw them strings to a sigh or groan In a curious sort of a way. 86 sprigs o' Mint When he got meller, say 'bout half shot, His jints got loose, an' his chist got hot. There warn't any man — I'll swear thar's not — Who could get sech a bully tone. His legs they were bowed, jes' as if they's made Fer that fiddle to set between. His hands they was big as a post-hole spade. An' I reckon about as clean. But when he strung fer a rip an' run, His face a-smile like the risin' sun. He looked right well — the son of a gun, — At least, thar air worse I have seen. But Bill struck a job in the summer months Along with a steamboatin' band. An' his life was happy, at least fer once. That he'd collared a job off land. Bill loved the change, and the river air — Took like a duck to the steamboat fare. His heart was free from trouble and care When he stood with his bow in hand. There was the lead fiddle, an' Bill's with bass, A guitar and a mandolin — See 'em all playin', as if in a race. Was somethin' you orter have seen. 87 Sprigs o' Mint The music they made was different kinds, Hadn't no notes, — kinder played by signs, Bill made 'em hustle along the lines. He set 'em a terrible pace. He didn't like music that's slow and sad. An' didn't bank much on^ a waltz. It queered him somehow, an' when he got mad, He's shore to make notes that was false. His joy was in playin' of rag-time works, His hot bass two-steps tickled the clerks ; He got in so many coon-jine jerks That his finish was often bad. One day they was playin' a sassy rag, An' Bill reachin' high fer his notes. The boys they say now he had on. a jag An' forgot about water an' boats. Humped up his back as he made a high run — Never was knowed how the thing was done,-— He went overboard ; he flopped an' spun, An' must a struck slap on a snag. He never come up, but his fiddle did, An' floated out over the wave. As lookin' fer Bill whar the ripples hid Him down in his watery grave. sprigs o' Mint They never could figger jest how he sunk, In talkin' it o'er, but many thunk If he'd been Hghter an' not so drunk He'd swum out to shore on his fid. The roustabouts say when they pass that place They can hear fust a sigh an' groan. They claim it is Bill with his old pine bass. An' the water swings back its tone. They often tell of a ghost that stands An' jerks a bow with its spooky hands — Of "hants" that dance from the boggy lands As Bill sets the terrible pace. 89 Sprigs o' Mint THE DROUTH AND THE RAIN. I've heard of the plagues of Egypt Which beset old King Pharaoh. They might a been wuss Than this here dust — I reckon, but I don't know. The rain-crow has quit his callin', For all of the signs went wrong, And hardly a bird is ever heard A chirpin' a pleasant song. The locust has hung up his fiddle, And he screeches that he'll be cussed If he tries to sing Or do anything In all of this dad-blamed dust. The cistern's as dry as a sermon, The pond is as dry as the wit Of a country bunk Who is full of punk; Your mouth is too dry to spit ; You jump in the river at morning, And waller in there till noon, Then the dust soaks in Through your leather skin. And you feel like a sore baboon. 90 sprigs o' Mint I've heard of the plagues of Egypt Which beset old Kingf Pharaoh. They might a been wuss Than this here dust — I reckon, but I don't know. 3|C 5jC 5|x ^C ^? ^C *jC ^C Gray clouds in the west at dawning, And a sort of a misty haze, And your inner soul thrills As the tips of the hills Are veiled in this moistened-touched maze, And the clouds all a-racin' And pacin' And darkenin' under your gaze. There's a patter down there in the river As each rain-drop kisses the stream. And it soothes your heart And the memory part Of an olden, golden dream. And the river awakens to greet them. And the fields with a freshness teem. Oh, delicious and precious The drops that refresh us — The trees are all bending beneath the rain, 91 Sprigs o' Mint The clouds all a-weeping The sweet of their keeping, The thunders are rolling a heavenly strain, And the days will be many Before we have any Of the dad-blamed dust again. 92 sprigs o' Mint PANT POWDEN OF POWDER CREEK. In the Cumberland Mountains, far above where Cumberland Gap opens as a passageway toward the South, is a wild, rough country where to-day can be found the deer, the bear and the mountain lion. Heavy undergrowth of foliage and towering forest trees, which seem tO' pierce the blue skies, cover the moun- tain sides. The mountain acacia, the sweet rho- dodendron and wild ferns raise their smiling heads here through the warm months, and in the late months of autumn it is the ideal place for those who enjoy hunting the big game which frequents this section. I have spent many happy days hunting up and down Pow- der Creek with that rare genius of the moun- tains known as Pant Powden, and the last time I saw him he was making arrangements to quit hunting and ''go into business," as he put it. I never could learn from him what kind of bus- iness he was contemplating; whether ''moon- shine" or rafting down the river, but no mat- ter what he is doing to-day, I know that he is the same lanky, happy-hearted, red-headed humorist of the wilds. 93 Sprigs o' Mint Pant Powden, eighteen years of age, as ugly as a screech-owl, but his laugh was like a burst of music, and his heart was filled with kindness and good cheer. I came upon him one morn- ing as he sat upon a log on the mountain side ; beside him lay the body of a beautiful golden eagle. ''Hello, Pant, where did you get that eagle?" "Got him up thar on Bald Knob. Pap been seein' him hup thar nigh onto sev'ul times, an' made me an offer to hutch him down, an' yis- tiddy I lays hine th' big rocks more nigh than three hour, an' 'bout th' time I thinks uv leavin', I hear th' floppin' uv big wings, an' my heart Stan's in my throat, an' he gives one bif-flop an' socks his claws inter th' big oak an' settles an' takes a quiet look down over the valley. I gits his breas' with the sun along th' gun-sight an' pulls, an' 'twuz th' purties' fall I ever see. ''You say you'll buy him f'um me if I takes him up to Benson Station? Hit's a go, ef hit is a long trip, but I kin stop at Aunt P' silly Orton's on my way back an' git my grub. Aunt P'silly always has had a kinder leanin' to me since I went after Doc Higgs fer her th' time she played dead. Never heerd about hit? I wuz down thar, stayin' a few days in th' neighborhood wen ole Aunt P'silly takes a notion that she wants th' ole man to raise 94 sprigs o' Mint money fer her to take a trip clown to th' city, an' th' ole man 'lows that th' money wa'n't rais- able, an' Aunt P'silly tuck on an' had some kind uv sinkin' spells an' 'lowed that she wuz goin' ter die ; an' she kep' on havin' sinkin' spells an' sech, tell bye an' bye she lays on th' bed an' wauls up her eyes an' breathes her last, to all 'pearances, an' Uncle Buck gits skeered an' digs across th' mount' in fer some uv th' neighbor wimmen, an' yells fer me to go git Doc Higgs. I got him, an' when we gits back, thar wuz th' ole wimmen tryin' to cumfert Uncle Buck an' sayin', ^B'ar yer burden as best ye kin, Buck;' an' Uncle Buck he groan an' says, 'Th' Lord has give an' th' Lord has tuck away,' an' then he busts out an' says, 'That durn corn-doctor who tole us 'bout th' city done hit all ;' an' th' ole wimmen says, 'B'ar up, Buck, fer she is now in glory.' "Doc Higgs goes up to Aunt P'silly, who wuz layin' with folded ban's, an' feels her pults, an' says, 'Yes, she is dead, pore soul ;' an' they all bust out cryin', afresh, an' th' hounds begin ter howl, an' Doc comes up to ther bed an' says, 'Bein' she is dead, Fll pour a little uv this nitric acid in her yeer to make shore.' An' as he tuck the stopper outen th' little bottle. Aunt P'silly opens one eye an' says, 'Doc Higgs, ef you 95 Sprigs o' Mint pour that in my yeer, you'll never live long 'nough to- straddle that hoss of yourn agen.' ''Ev'rybody gits holt uv th' story an' laughs 'bout hit, an' when Dink Peelman asks Uncle Buck 'bout hit, Uncle Buck said that Doc Higgs called it a case uv suspended damnation, or suthin' uv that sort. Dink would like to have made a joke uv th' bus'ness, but they happened to have Dink fouled along anuther line, an' he had to go easy, fer you see Dink an' Bob Hous- ton both goes over to see Jinny Rilen, — fust one then tur, — an' both lands tliar together one Sunday night, an' all th' fam'ly sets in th' same room, an' th' want much courtin'-talk done. 'Twuz rainin' an' stormin' outside, an' Bob an' Dink stays all night an' sleeps in th' loft. Th' next mornin' Bob an' Jinny wa'n't thar^ — they had 'loped in th' night an' had gone to Westrick an' got hitched. "Wuz Dink sick? He jes' laid 'round an' chawed sassafras bark an' cussed when you drapped him a word. Bob an' Jinny come back an' lived with th' ole folks. In about two weeks a buzz-saw split down at th' mill an' made a bee-line fer ole man Rilen. He didn't have time to dodge, an' they wuz all day bringin' in his remains. Mrs. Rilen wuz a wiclder, but hit wa'n't many months before Dink begin ter nose aroun' up thar, an' before folks could hardly git 96 sprigs o' Mint steady on th' business, they got married — him twenty-six, an' her fifty-eight. An' when they comes home, Bob an' Jinny says, 'What der this mean ?' An' Dink kinder grins an' says, 'Hit means that you an' Jinny kin sHde out jes' as quick as you did before.' An' Bob, seein' as th' law wuz agin him, tuck Jinny an' sHd. Some few days after this, pap meets Dink, an' says, 'Dink, I wuz surp'ise at you falHn' in love with the widder Rilen ;' an' Dink says, 'I wa'n't in love with th' widder Rilen, but I did natchelly despise that Bob Houston.' " "Pant, they tell me that you have a sort of love case down there at Simpson's," "Yes, sir, I have; an' she says that she got hit too, an' I don't know uv nothin' that would have kep' us frum gittin' hitched, ef she hadn't been porely. I don't know as how I cum to git that feelin' fer Dory, but th' day we climbed to th' top uv Bald Knob over thar, when she wuz well — you've been on Bald Knob, an' know how fur you kin see, away over to Marlin Ridge, an' down to whar th' railroad winds in an' out through th' gap. Looked like I wuz the tiredest when we got hup, an' how she laffed at me when I puffed so, an' she stood side me as she pinted out all th' places in the valley, an' she 'tended like she had never seen 'em before. I 'members hit wuz a mi'ty purty day hup thar, 97 sprigs o' Mint an' when we comes down she had all sorts uv mountain flowers in her arms, an' I had all sorts uv funny notions in my head, an' when we comes to th' foot uv th' mountain, I says, " 'Dory, I hain't never goin' to stay hyar in these mount' ins no longer.' " 'Why hain't you ?' says she. " 'Because nobody keers fer me hyar,' says I. " 'Nobody keers fer people as don't keer fer them,' says she as she hinig her head. "We had cum down to th' creek, an' I stopped an' says, " 'Dory, is th' anybody else you would dim' that mountain with?' " 'Nobody else,' says she. " 'Would you dim' all th' rough mountains uv this life with me?' says I. " 'Ev'ry one uv them,' says she." 98 Sprigs o' Mint DE LITTLE NIGGERETTE. Yes, he wuz a little nigger, An' he wuzzen enny bigger Den de shadder fum a figger Uv a goose upon de wall ; An' he kep' his eyes a-turnin' To de cabin — he wuz learnin' Sumpin' 'bout terbacker burnin', Dat wuz all. Riz de smoke a little hiah, Drap de ashes fum de fiah, But he nevah seem to tiah Ez he smoke de cigarette ; How hit lay agin his finger. Den up to his mouf he bring her, And de smoke hit float an' linger Roun' de little niggerette. All de burds 'round wuz singin', An' de honey-bee wuz wingin', 'Roun' de mornin'-glories clingin' To de vines upon de wall ; An' he blow de smoke a twirlin'. An' he watch it floatin', curlin', An' he' haid wuz kinder whirlin', Dat wuz all. 99 Sprigs o' Mint Yar ! ole granny sot a-nappin' In de house, her haid wuz drappin' On her bres', den sumpin' happen' — 'Whu's dat nasty cigarette?" She hed smell de smoke a-siftin' In de room an' seed it driftin', Den you see her feet a-shiftin' To de little niggerette. Drap de ashes f'um de fiah, Riz de smoke a little hiah, Den he turn an' dar he spy her, Den he let he' smokins fall. He wuz sick when he cum nigh her, Riz de smoke a little hiah, Ez she set his pants afiah, Dat wuz all. 100 sprigs o' Mint THE MISTAKES OF A COUNTRY CANDIDATE. I am not a kicker, and have learned to take matters of life as they come and go with a peaceful resignation to fate, but there are some things that a man feels could have been a little better shaped by the hand of destiny. Because a man has run for office three times, and has been defeated each time, is not an indi- cation that he is absolutely unfit for office, or that he has an everlasting aversion for work. The latter consideration may cut some ice, for I have observed that some men who have held office get powerful short on energy when they get separated from office. I made three races and three failures — swore at the outcome of each race that I would never run again, but the fever attacked me until I had to go to^ selling wheat-fans for a living, and I quit, but I am onto the game. I had a good farm ; stood well in the church, for I always came down with my dues and was satisfied with all of the sprouts which they sent us from the seminary hot-house to grace the rostrum on the Sabbath days. I had faith in lOI sprigs o' Mint the honesty and sincerity of my fellow-man until I got into politics, and then I lost faith in all of them, including- myself. I tried the game on the square for awhile, and then I joined the hosts of the irreclaimable shysters. I don't know how it swept into me to make the first race for county assessor. I had made a good, strong pull for a neighbor in a race and began to develop symptoms of ''influence." The briars began to grow in the fence corners and I was getting ripe for the slaughter. I found myself unnecessarily wandering out of my way to shake hands with acquaintances, and, in many cases, I grasped the paws of men and poured soft words into their ears when I knew that they hadn't enough character to carry a torch in hades, but they evened up for my hypocrisy. I still have the same opinion of them, possibly they still retain one of me. I made the race for assessor — if you'd cut off the last five letters of the word you would have me sized up when I came out. I was defeated by a bow-legged bulldog sort of a fellow, who actually cried' himself into the of^ce. When old Brad Hickman was buried, both of us were as close to the grave as we could possibly get to attract attention. Bow- legs heaved and sobbed and leaned over as close to the widow and children as he could get, and 1 02 sprigs o' Mint when the clods began to fall, he broke down and fairly leaked tears into the grave. He was about the only one who wept for old Hickman, as about all the property he left represented what he had skinned and cheated his neighbors out of. It looked like every district in the county had a funeral during that race, and Bow-legs was always there v/ith the goods, and if he happened to have four or five drinks in him, he'd slobber and moan until it was dis- gusting, but it won out, and the morning after election I realized my first mistake. I woke up a sadder but not a wiser man. Ma had managed to take pretty good care of the farm and I made the first race on very little money, and the grafters had not troubled me much. I was out of politics, but politics v/asn't out of me, and before the next election came around I had been ''prevailed on by friends" to make the race for county clerk. There were three cripples in the race against me, and the boys said that I could only beat them by putting up the coin, which I did, and when the grafters heard that I had gotten a mortgage on the farm they began to flop their wings above me, and I forked over until I could almost tell the brand of whisky I was pay- ing for by the war-whoops of the hypocrite who 103 sprigs o' Mint was carrying it. I had fellows sit down to my table who had never seen a napkin and who took out a chew of tobacco from their mouths and laid it beside their plates until they had finished eating. I've seen the color come into my wife's face when some henchman would choke on a fish-bone and smash up all the queensware in his struggles. I've had my girls sing and play on the piano for skunks who hadn't washed their feet in three months,, and I've had them sleep in my beds when I knew that they never even took off their boots, and after all of this sacrifice they threw the hooks into me on the day of the election. I never saw as many cripples in a race^ — they were after all the offices and the three against me would have made star professionals on a New York street corner. They started out in fairly good shape, but before the election was over they had to be carried around, and when they put them up on the stump for inspection, Lazarus at the rich man's gate was a lily in comparison. Everybody seemed to have lost sight of me through their interest in the museum. I couldn't even get a sprained ankle. I got a load of birdshot once in a watermelon patch when a boy — the people hadn't forgotten this, but I had forgotten how to limp. I longed for the lep- rosy or something to break out on me, but I 104 sprigs o' Mint continued wretchedly strong and healthy until the returns came in. I had a set speech, in which I told of four generations of my family who had lived in the county and had never scratched the Democratic ticket. I could get off my talk in the kitchen at home to the queen's taste, and raise enough courage to work in a gesture now and then, but when I got up before the crowd and some fellow I knew to be my enemy sneered into my face, my arms would hang limp and my jaws would get paralysis, but all those cripples would have to do was to be drag- ged up on the stand and just be looked at. It was an ambulance race, and I was in the wheelbarrow. The fellow who was elected threw away his crutches two weeks after he was elected and went back to eating up long green tobacco. The other fellows had tO' go to work, but in the end I discovered that I was the worst cripple in the bunch. The farm had a big mortgage on it now, and the thought of dragging over the fields behind a mule made me sick at heart. My friends said I made a mistake in the last race by not "get- ting in the ring." The "ring" consisted of a gang who had gotten political supremacy by bulldozing and buncombe, by buying and sell- ing as occasion bid. The head man — he of the 105 sprigs o' Mint great pull and mighty power^ — was a squatty, keg-legged, putty-faced terrier, who had done some highly commendable dirty work for one of the little big men of the State. I don't know, but a little, squatty man is a terror to me now — they seem to work low to the ground and don't have to be put to the strain of looking you in the eye when they are plotting your very life away. I laid up close to this bloated fish, the politi- cal boss. I laughed at his moth-eaten jokes, I played him strong and even told my boys that he was a scholar when they asked me if he had used proper language when he said "I taken" and ''I seen." Men of high culture, with ambitions for Con- gress, had him at their tables, and, no matter if he tucked his napkin under his chin and shov- eled in his food with his knife, they needed him; it was all right to sneer at the ill-bred manners of others who couldn't be used, but the grimy habits of the boss were mere little irreg- ularities. He had licked the hand of every- body above him, and he demanded that every- body beneath him should bow the knee — I strained the muscles in mine. What mattered it if he couldn't read or spell to any degree — he had the pull. I remember in one of his campaigns that he was called on at a io6 sprigs o' Mint country prayer meeting to read a chapter — the whisky inside of him kept up his nerve — ^he floundered along until he came to the name Judas Iscariot in the twenty-sixth chapter of Matthew ; he hesitated a moment and then com- placently read it "J^"idas Apricot," I started into the race for representative in the State legislature. I had the support of the boss ; at least, I thought I had it. I gave him the last money I could raise, and he calmly told me that I could sell out in the senatorial race which would come up during my term, and raise the mortgage on my farm. ''Play 'em right and left," he said. ''When you run up on a man who favors Senator Gas-pot, talk noth- ing but Gas-pot, and when you get in a gang where the wind is strong for Judge Stealum Shadow, talk Shadow." I talked with the political weather-cock — I was for anybody and everybody, and when they caught me on the stump and demanded my position on the sena- torial race, I said : "Gentlemen, I am noncom- mittal in that race." I wanted to come out flat- footed and at least make some sort of honest statement, but the boss wouldn't have it that way. I made a speech one afternoon at Hedge- Hog; we had a barbecue and nine kegs of beer ; my opponent was a sneak who kept a bottle hid 107 sprigs o' Mint in his stable, but played sober to the public. I mixed considerably with the boys and uninten- tionally got about a half gallon too much of beer, and when I got up on the stand I nearly lost track of myself and said, "Gentlemen, I am a candidate for the high office to represent you in the national halls of Congress." I saw my mistake and corrected it as quickly as pos- sible, but when my opponent got up he said, "My friend has made so many races that he is not certain what he is running for." The shot went home, and it was a pity that I didn't go home. The boss told me two days before the election that I would have to raise two hun- dred and fifty dollars, as the opposition was getting money in from some source. I couldn't raise the price of a pippin. I hung around rather desolate, for there was something doing, and a combination was being made. I saw the boss talking to my opponent one morning and my heart sank, and I began to think, but I thought too late. I lost out by three hundred, and when I met the boss the next day he fanned his liquor breath into my face and said, "You orto have played honest — nobody knowed where you stood!" The wheat-fan business doesn't pay much, but it pays more than politics. Will I ever run again? Never! io8 sprigs o' Mint P. S. — There is some talk among- my friends of bringing me out for county judge. I posi- tively will not run — at least, unless there is every indication for success. 109 sprigs o' Mint I'M YEARNIN' PER THE RIVER. You kin talk about the blue-grass An' the deep of woodland shade, Where the soil is rich and loamy From the upland to the glade; Where the meadows roll in splendor 'Neath the softened summer skies; Where the thoroughbred is prancin' 'Mid this happy paradise. But I'm longin' fer the river An' the green of rugged hills, An' I'm yearnin' fer the old haunts, An' my spirit wakes an' thrills When I picture in my fancy That long, deep, majestic roll Of the stream that seems is windin' Thro' my very heart an' soul. Hain't much fishin' in the blue-grass. For old Elkhorn's had her day; All the famous holes are empty Since they've ketched the fish fer pay ; But they're runnin' in the river. An' they never taste so good Till you git 'em in a skillet On a fire of river wood. no Sprigs o' Mint Lor' ! the nights of moon an' starhght, When the pipe-voice whippoorwill Sings a serenade an' love-song To' his mate upon the hill, An' the fox-hound's yelp is ringin' Thro' the valley loud and clear, An' thar ain't no sweeter music Ever fell on mortal yeer. Ain't no mornin' half so rosy As the ones down on the stream, An' they swing upon your spirit Like some vision of a dream; An' to roam around the river In the sunrise russet glow Thrills you, fills you with a gladness That a king would like to know. An' the sunsets in their glory — Silvered streaks an' bars of gold, Slantin' o'er the calm of water — Git an everlastin' hold On the heart-strings of your bosom, An' you lose the touch of care — Oh, I'm yearnin' fer the river. An' I'm goin' to dig fer there. Ill sprigs o' Mint THE MAN WHO MARKED THE LOGS. The news of the "tide" had been passed down from the head- waters of the Kentucky River, and all along this beautiful little stream there was an awakening of interest and excite- ment. The log-men were getting the rafts into sections of required length to pass through the locks and making ready to begin the journey down toward the Ohio, and when the "tide" arrived they would swing out upon its bosom and float through the sunny days and moon-lit nights, hunting and fishing as they floated, and when the logs were delivered at the mills down the river, they would cheerfully shoulder their packs and begin the long homeward journey, walking the entire distance, in order to save the scant wages. Down at the mouth of Rocky Fork, a little creek which emptied into the Kentucky, a raft was being loosed from its moorings, and was moving into the current. A big, broad-should- ered son of the mountains stood on the bank, with a heavy marking sledge across his shoulder. In the end of the sledge was the raised iron-rimmed letter A, and this letter was 112 sprigs o' Mint in the end of every log which came down Rocky Fork. It was Tom Altman's mark, and the big, broad-shouldered man who stood on the bank and watched the rafts swing out into the stream was Tom Altman. "Watch 'em at the locks, Beeson !" he called as the head raft turned into the bend of the river. He shifted his marking sledge to his right shoulder and climbed the mountain path. For miles to the right and left the timber lands belonged to Altman, and from these woods he had sent thousands of feet of the finest logs that had ever gone down stream. He was known as the wealthiest log-man of the upper Kentucky, and it was a matter of continual regret to his friends that he did not give up the rougher part of the work and enjoy the riches which he had earned through years of toil ; but he continued to live with the men in his employ, and to share with them the hardships and the rough fare. He knew every detail of his bus- iness, and knew where every dollar of his money lay, and the interest bearing of the same, although he had never been a day in school, picking up what little learning he had more by absorption than application. Flis fearless character and honesty of purpose gave him a leading force in that region where such little value was placed on human life. He had 113 sprigs o' Mint followed his own course, taking no part in the many bitter quarrels of the mountain factions. For years there had been trouble in the county ; the oldest citizen could not tell you the original cause of the conditions beset with so much hatred and bloodshed, which had given the county a bad name throughout the State and the Nation. As Altman approached the two-storied log- house where he and his men had their quarters he was met by a bronzed-faced log-man "Been to town, Craigman?" asked Altman. "Yes, jest got back.'' "What news?" "Fight broke out at Holeman's liv'ry stable. Joe Honce and Mat Honce was killed, an' the Pritten boys broke in the jail an' tuck Lon Prit- ten out, an' Judge Howell has sent for the soldiers." Altman ate his bacon and eggs in silence. His thoughts were up at the county-seat, and he was thinking of the two men who had been killed and of the families left destitute. The next morning he called Craigman and said, "Al, I am going to town on business and want you to look after things. Get anything you need at the store. The logs as I want to go down is all marked — send no others and mark no others." 114 sprigs o' Mint Altman saddled his mule and started for town. Taking a roundabout course he went by the cabins where the Honce boys had lived. Here he found sorrow and despair, children clinging to frightened-looking mothers, and straining their tear-stained eyes toward the mountain road, looking for the beloved parents who would come no more. Altman spoke kind words to all of Ihem and gave the women an order on the store for provisions, and told them to come to him when they were in need. He rode into the little town and hitched his mule in front of Judge Howell's office. How- ell sat smoking his corn-cob pipe and looking as if an avalanche of trouble was about to sweep over him, but seeing the giant form of Altman at the door, his face brightened and he came forward, extending his hand and saying, "Lord knows I am glad to see you, Tom. Hell's broke loose and both sides air layin' in whisky and ammunition. They've took Lon Pritten out of the jail and I've sent for the troops, and the Governor has wired me that they will be here to-morrow." Altman twisted off a chew of tobacco and said, "Will the soldiers do any good?" "Well," said Howell, "they will quiet things down for a while anyhow; and I'm going to 115 Sprigs o' Mint have Lon Pritten back and try him, if they kill me." "You will not be the first good man who has lost his life trying to do his duty," said Alt- man. "But here's my hand. I'm with you, for it's time somethin' was bein' done to stop this state of things." The soldiers came the next morning — a com- pany of forty-five young fellows, who sang all the way from the railway station, and sang as they pitched the camp. The captain was a sober and serious young man of thirty years. He and Altman and Howell talked long and earnestly regarding the situation. "Send your sheriff first to look for Pritten. Let's move as quietly as possible." Judge Howell sent the sheriff and two deputies, and the next day Prit- ten came in with them, saying that all he wanted was the protection of the soldiers and a fair trial. "Keep Pritten inside his tent, and don't let him outside of it," said Altman to the captain. "His life will not be worth a feather if you let him come out in the light." Pritten stood it very well for the first day, but after he had gotten on good terms with the soldiers he grew restless to get out and stretch himself in the warm sunshine. "Go back into that tent, Pritten!" ordered ii6 sprigs o' Mint the captain. Pritten was standing in the midst of the soldiers. He started toward the tent. There came a httle white puff of smoke from the up-stairs window of a house about a square away — the crack of a Winchester, and Pritten lunged forward and fell, shot through the heart. The soldiers ran for their guns, and went on a run for the house down the street. It was a vacant house; they climbed the creaky stairs ; a Winchester 'rifle lay by the window, that was all — back they marched through the gathering crowd. ''Who done it? Who done it?" was the question asked on every side; but if there was one in that crowd who had any suspicions he kept them in his own bosom. The coroner opened Pritten' s clothes. The blood had clotted on his blue cotton shirt, his mouth was drawn into a death grin, showing his crooked and decayed teeth. Another grave was made in the valley. The soldiers remained for ten days, several arrests were made, but nothing by way of evi- dence was secured. The men whose hands were stained with blood were hid away in the fastnesses of the mountains. Five days after the soldiers left the trouble broke out again. Jiles Pritten shot Clem Honce as he came out of a barber shop. A deputy 117 Sprigs o' Mint sheriff was near and arrested Pritten and took him to jail. "I'll get the soldiers back/' said Judge Howell. ''No," said Altman, who had come into town, "we'll take care of the matter ourselves." He slung his heavy marking sledge into a corner and said, "I'm agoin' to guard that jail !" And guard it he did. He sent for a dozen log-men and put them around the jail, and there was no attempt to move on them. Pritten was brought to trial at once, and on the jury sat at least eight men selected by Alt- man — raftsmen, and men who were not afraid to do their duty. The court-room was filled with men representing both factions, men whose countenances spoke hatred and a thirst for blood. The witnesses were terror-stricken, but under Altman's piercing eye they told what they knew. After the speeches had been made, the jury went out, and came back in forty minutes with a verdict of murder in the first degree, and fixed Pritten' s punishment at death. Nothing like that verdict had ever been heard in that court-house before. There was an ominous clicking in hip-pockets. Altman stood out before the crowd like a monarch oak, his eyes flaming — "I'll kill the man who pulls a gun !" ii8 sprigs o' Mint The guard started for a spring-wagon with the prisoner, who was to be taken to Winches- ter for safe-keeping. As Altman and his log- men came out into the httle court-house yard, they noticed that there was a commotion over where the spring-wagon was standing, and suddenly a pistol-shot rang out and the crowd began to scatter, and from the windows of the near-by houses Winchester rifles began to crack. A man running along by the fence threw up his hands and fell to the pavement, his fingers twitched at the trigger of a revolver, and the bullet tore into the ground. Altman stood beside the prisoner. There was a crash of window-glass as a ball tore through a window — men ran out the back door. ''Get into that wagon," said Altman to the prisoner, and as Altman put his foot on the step to mount to the wagon-seat, a rifle ball struck him in the leg. He turned and drew his pistol — the gleam of a wild tiger in his eyes. A mountaineer whose countenance was hid behind a bushy beard was firing at him. ''Come out into the open like a man !" cried Altman, as he put a bullet into the tree behind which the man was sheltering. The beard stuck out beyond the tree, and the next moment a ball cut through it. But Altman suddenly dropped 119 sprigs o' Mint his pistol, and reeled and fell. Craigman, his foreman, ran to his side, revolver in hand, — "Air ye hurt, Altman ?" "I'm done for, Craigman. I done my best to do my duty, — I had nothin' ao'in nobody, I — I tried to do my duty — git the rafts down on time, I'll not — be — there^ — to — ma-r-k t-h-e — l-o-g-s." 120 sprigs o' Mint WHEN THE KATYDID SINGS. When the katydid sings in the sleeping trees, On the night's soft turn, 'tis a mild heart-ease, And the lisp And the whisp Of the crisp, balm breeze Is wand'ring the valley on fairy wings — Oh, the heart grows warm 'Neath the weird-touched charm, When the katydid sings. When the katydid sings in that sweet hushed spell, When the moon and the stars in their giory swell. When each glint And tint Of the sky is sent Into your heart till its soul-tone rings. And you dream once more Of the days of yore. When the katydid sings. 121 Sprigs o' Mint PELICAN SMITH. It was unnecessary to make any inquiry as to how he g"ot that name — all you had to do was to look at that nose. Physiognomists tell us that a prominent nose is indicative of character — the nose on Smith's face didn't dispute the statement of the gentlemen of science. Pelican Smith was a character, all over. It stuck out on him in bunches, although some of the prom- inent knobs and sinks in his head had been placed there by other hands than those of nature. But Pelican had character. Webster's third definition of character reads : '^The sum of qualities which distinguishes one person or thing from another." The "sum of qualities" which distinguished Smith was his nose — there never was another nose like it. You didn't have to look to the eyes for expression; you didn't seek the swinging lines of the mouth for frowns or smiles; the forehead nor the chin opened any by-path of light to his soul, all of your observation was centralized upon the one predominating feature, his nose. Pelican was a character that helped to make history in the river country. Some years before the nose had gained prominent recognition 122 sprigs o' Mint beyond the confines of the county, PeHcan was joined in holy wedlock to Miss Addie Stringer, of Ball's Landing. The union was a happy one, so far as it went. The happy couple started on their honeymoon from Ball's Landing on the steamer Little Tiger. They were going down to Wide Awake, a distance of thirty miles. The boat caught fire, Pelican swam out on a cracker-box, and when they found the body of his wife the next day. Peli- can thumped the side of his nose with his thumb, and said, ''Hit's a damn pity she couldn't swim." Pelican managed to throttle his grief, and started boldly into life again by starting a ''blind tiger." He succeeded in working up several good-sized war-dances in the commu- nity by his assiduous attention to business, but one night a mild argument, as to whether the Baptists or the Methodists were the chosen of the Lord, was started in his place, and Pelican had to close up the joint, for nearly all of his best customers closed up their earthly careers at the close of the argument. Pelican told me afterward that over three hundred shots were fired. "And," said he, leaning over, "I reckon the only reason I was saved was that I didn't belong to either denomination, as you know I am a Campbellite." 123 Sprigs o' Mint Pelican moved down on the Ohio after this episode, and it was there I first met him. There is always a ripple of interest when a stranger moves into a community, especially if there is some ting-e of mystery about him. Oh, if we only knew a few things, we would never be- come commonized by a flabby familiarity with all of our affairs. Pelican didn't have much to say — he had no desire to mention the past. He was wise. It was rumored that he had left a good farm at Ball's Landing, and moved down on the Ohio for relief from the asthma. Peli- can had never been troubled with asthma, or any other disease, beyond the whisky habit, but he did not dispute any of the statements made by an interested community. His stock went up with the "farm" statement. He was invited to take supper with Bill Bristow. Bill was the proud owner of twenty acres of hill land, with a small house and good-sized mortgage on it. Pelican still retained his noncommittal attitude,, and the interest grew stronger. Pelican had one pet phrase, which he always used on state occasions. If Pelican had any knowledge of trigonometry, or could even write his name, I never knew of it, but in speaking of distances, or the position of any object, he invariably re- ferred to it as being "at an angle of forty-five degrees." It had the smack of learning about 124 Sprigs o' Mint it. Old Bristow's big word throw was "sub- soil," but be went in his shell when Pelican shoved '^angle of forty-five degrees" through his nose. Miss Lottie, a demure maiden of twenty-nine summers, sat next to Pelican, and old Bristow looked on with satisfaction at the headway they were making. Old Bristow was thinking of the farm up at Ball's Landing, Pelican was thinking of the fafm he was on. * >i^ ^ There is no use in hanging over details. Peli- can and Miss Lottie were married a few weeks after the supper. Bristow gave a dance and ice cream supper, and charged fifty cents admis- sion. There was dancing, singing and a cut- ting scrape, and the happy couple felt that the occasion had been one of success. The bride was disappointed in not getting to take a steam- boat trip, but Pelican turned pale at the sugges- tion. Pelican certainly married into old Bris- tow's family, for he never made any move toward looking for another home, and it wasn't many days before Bristow's bosom began to nurse a supreme contempt for his nose-gay of a son-in-law. Time passed, and then came the twins — a boy and a girl — and Pelican's eyes beamed fondly on the boy, for he had the Pelican nose. But old Bristow rose up in his wrath and said 125 sprigs o' Mint that *'the straw had broke the camel's back at last," and that they would have to go, and so Pelican and his wife came down into my neigh- borhood to live in a shanty-boat on the river. But it was a losing venture, so far as domestic felicity was concerned. Pelican and his wife awoke in the mornings amid a war of words and the yells of the twins, and the sun went down on their increasing wrath every evening. Bristow came down to lend the voice of reconciliation. Pelican knocked him off the boat with an oar, and as old Bristow floundered out to the shore and wrung the water out of his whiskers, he said, "Fix yer own troubles — far' well!" Two weeks after the fight Mrs. Pelican Smith went back to live with her father^ and Pelican resumed the fishing and ''blind- tiger" business with a calm and reassuring peace of mind. I had two new nets and a set of trot-lines, and we bunched into a sort of partnership, and Pelican seemed satisfied with the world again. I could never get him to give vent to his feel- ings in regard to his family, or as to whether he had any yearning to see them, or to be with them again. But one night we sat together on the shore. We had run out of bait and were making plans to secure it, as the lines were dry upon the shore and the fish would be running 126 sprigs o' Mint with the gentle rise coming in the river. We sat on an old sycamore log together. The moon had just begun to swing over the hill and i could see the white rim of it above the edge of Pelican's nose. Across the river a farm dog was baying, and away up the bend I could hear the sleepy chug-chug of some steamer. The moonbeams sprayed through the willows hang- ing above the mouth of the creek, and the mur- muring ripples on the white-pebbled shore seemed to dance in gladness under the spell of the beauteous night. "Pehcan," I said, "why don't you go back to your wife and children, and try to live happily with them?" Pelican made no answer, and I pressed upon him. 'Telican, those two little twins are dependent upon you, and if you had a little home to yourself, where the vines could run over the doorway, and the birds sing in your own trees, with your wife and children beside you, your life would be happy — think of them, Pelican, your wife and children." Pelican arose, his face turned toward the stream — ah ! I had him at last meditating upon his dear ones. "What are you thinking of. Pelican ?" "I was thinkin' wher'n the hell we'd git that bait ter-morrow." 127 sprigs o' Mint SLIBBERS ON SPIRITUALISM. I cannot say exactly, boys, But still I am inclined To give the thing a summin' up Within my jostled mind. And maybe that my rulin's are As fur- fetched as intense, But Slibbers never passes down Beyond his good hoss sense; But if the Lord Almighty now Is slingin' 'round His laws, And speakin' out His prophecies Thro' all these mediums' jaws, And if the run of mediums are Like that one who queered me. There'll be a row in heaven, for. They'd queer eternity. There's one thing mighty certain, boys, A man ain't fit to think. Nor see to no advantage when His hide is corked with drink. And when they turned the green lights on And whispered kinder low, I almost felt the lizards as I felt them years ago. 128 Sprigs o' Mint They first called up a spirit of Some jay-bird from Japan, Who sent a snake-eyed message tO' A girl named Cooney Ann. And Cooney Ann just shivered till I thought her soul would sink ; But I laid low and fortified Behind another drink. And then they called a spirit up Who said he couldn't tell Just how the things was slidin', for He'd just escaped from hell. I b'lieve he was a Congressman Or trust king who had paved That place with good intentions, but He chuckled, "I am saved." And then the medium sorter checked His message thro' the floor. For although mediums call the rich The mediums all are poor. For seems that all these spirits who Can tell your life and sich. Can never tell their friends back here Just how they kin git rich. And then they called a Western man By name of Biglow Meggs, And Biglow, as I noticed, had The same old shape of legs 129 Sprigs o' Mint As all the other spirits had. And when he talked of death, It seemed the same old onion smell Was ling'rin' on his breath. And Biglow called my name and says, "Your first wife beckons you." And I reached for a chair leg and I says, ''The heck she do !" And reachin' for my arctic shoes I says, "J^st say for me I hoped she would stop talkin' when She hit eternity." And still the lights was burnin' low When I fit thro' the door — I left a part of Biglow and His spirit on the floor. As I rode home I figgered how I'd made the thing a botch, And just then I discovered that Some one had stole my watch. 130 Sprigs o' Mint Dupont de Nemours has discovered that dogs talk in vowels when angry, using but two consonants; he asserts that cats employ the same vowels as dogs, but their language is more affluent in consonants. I don't know anything about dog language or cat language, but if there is anything in bird language I heard some tall "cussing" up here last week. A family of birds, of the martin tribe, occupy a box at the top of a long pole in the side yard. I had fre- quently noticed a black rooster martin as he shifted around chattering and chirping in the happiest manner. He and old sister martin were evidently on the best of terms — the old man always returned from marketing beaming with pleasantries, and the way he kept his spade-tail coat "slicked" up showed that he was a gentleman of the old school. But one morn- ing I heard a terrible commotion in the box, and I knew that a "rough house" was on, and after a while I saw old martin leap off the perch, and as he went he cackled out something which savored of sulphur. The next day I saw another martin there — a brown-coated rooster — sitting around on the box, making all sorts of courtesies to the grass-widow, and when I 131 Sprigs o' Mint saw them sitting together on the roof I knew the cause of the disturbance; but the next day I saw old martin, number one, on a limb near the box ; he was muddy, and there was a dangerous fire in his eye, and every time he sang out he seemed saying, ^'Come out, you sneaking cow- ard," and finally old martin went in and dragged him out, and he licked that brown- coated martin nearly to death, and the last I saw of him he was boring a hole in the atmos- phere, due southwardo Old black martin is now "at home" to his friends, and the family, including sister martin, seem proud of him as the master of his household. ^c ^€ ^^ 5jc y^ ^f*. 3^ 2|C The afternoon drags along under the swel- tering heat — the clouds in the far-away blue seem lazily drifting northward in search of some refreshing breeze — over there in the little boxelder tree a catbird is complaining in a sort of minor strain, and the locust lends his mourn- ful dirge to the oppressive surroundings . . . . . You swing your arm over the back of the iron bench and watch the children as they come down the walks of the park. Here is a group, in charge of a white-aproned nurse, and how carefully she watches each move, lest the immaculate dress of these children of fortune 132 sprigs o' Mint become soiled by the stains of the grass. Their little hearts seem to yearn for the joy of a good roll on the sweet grass and some of the pleasure of a rough-and-tumble time. Look over yonder on the grass beneath the heavy trees. There are two little girls in red calico, and a red-headed, freckled- faced bully of six years, barefooted and stone-bruised, dirty and delighted in his freedom. The buttons are all missing from the ragged blue waist, the rosy pinkness of his chest is laid bare, the muscles of his little shoulders draw into a roll of strength and he stands before you a tiny Hercules. There is no refined modulation in the voices of this group, but the echo of unalloyed happiness leaps with the freshness of a mountain spring. The shadows are lengthening and the sweet- faced and prettily-clad children are gone, the lunch baskets with their dainty sweetmeats are swinging on the delicate little arms. The cat- bird has begun to sing again. Here comes the bully and the ginger-headed girls. There are no lunch baskets, no flowers nestling in their hands, but over each ruddy face there sweeps a smile golden in the glad realization of a gen- uine old time. "Yes," said Whiskins, as he whetted his knife on his bootleg, "when it come to hatin' 133 sprigs o' Mint a man, old Captain Strom led the procession. Old Lig"e Peters beat him in a footrace when they was boys and won sixty cents from him, and he never forgive him, but got to hatin' him worse ev'ry year, and if he saw old Lige Peters's name in a paper he would burn that paper at once. They met up on the bridge one day. Old Lige wouldn't turn back fu'st, nuther would the old Captain, and they blocked the whole road, till Lige hit the old man a crack with a rock that loosened his hide and made his boss jump in the creek. I never see a man hate anuther as old Captain hated Lige. *'01d Captain j'ined the church about four days before he died; the preacher come tO' see him just before he passed away. " 'Brother Strom,' said he, 'do you feel that you have salvation, and are goin' to be saved ?' " 'Yes, I do,' answered the Captain. " 'Are you happy ?' asked the parson. " 'Yes, I am happy,' said the old Captain, 'fer I'm goin' to heaven, where I know I won't meet old Lige Peters, fer there can be no plan of salvation figgered out that can keep him out of hell' " "Here's flowers for you ; hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram. The marigold that goes to 134 sprigs o' Mint bed with the sun and with him rises weeping ; these are flowers of middle summer." — Win- ter's Tale. I don't know whether William Shakespeare or Sir Francis Bacon wrote the exquisite Scene III, Act IV of the Winter's Tale, and I don't care, but it is a golden and delicious outburst of poetry, breathing almost of the fragrance of the summer bloom — and such a delicate touch, as each separate season comes forward with its rich profusion of flowers, and what a subject for this master-mind, which jewel-tints each word, and makes us see new beauty and fresh hidden sweetness in each passing rose. The flowers of middle summer — how sweet are those we find around us here. The sun may swelter and vegetation wither, but these flowers come on to cheer us with their radiant faces. I have often come across the white acacia, and the royal purple rhododendron, hanging their gorgeous colors over some lonely mountain side, but wafting upon your heart the glorious reflection which they caught from limpid skies. Along the roadside, and in the fields of this dreamy valley, the vermilion red of the Vir- ginia creeper and the moon-tinted blossoms of the wild honeysuckle, casting around a paradise of delicate fragrance; the sweet-briar, rose is lingering on the hills— the black-eyed Susans 135 Sprigs o' Mint are dotting the swampy wastes — the alder- bloom, in all of its dainty clusters, hanging- like the outline in the pattern of some rare old lace — the wild parsley bending over some sequestered pathway, where the flocks come tinkling down at eventide. Over yonder is the Sweet William, which used to grow by the old-fashioned garden walks of our dear old- fashioned grandmothers, and the hollyhocks of rich magenta red and fairy white, where the bee comes on the dew-kissed breeze and dips to luscious nectar. The Marechal Niel, "sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes," trembles in the twilight glory, beside her lovely white- robed sister, the tea rose. The tiger-lily is bending to the sun and waving in golden glad- ness and lending to the summer day the full measure of its grace and beauty. Long may they cluster — the summer blooms. How sweet in the garden of the heart are the faded leaves pressed o'er some line in some beloved book, telling of love and youthful days, and how dear are the memories of the sacred beauty of the flowers we laid in wreaths upon the tombs of those whose eyes speak love to us no more. 136 sprigs o' Mint Who would sing a song of sadness 'Mid the balmy summer's gladness, When the bloom is on the upland And the blue is o'er the skies ; When the brook is sweetly wending Thro' the meadows — rythmic blending Of the spirit— touch and whispers From the mystic paradise ! What a blessing the typewriter has been to those of us who are troubled with ^Vriter's cramp" or jim-jams of the fingers when we get hold of a pen. When a fellow comes to the distressing point where he cannot read his own chirography when it gets '^cold," a typewriter is not only a blessing to him, but a consolation to his friends ; and in what bold relief the words and sentences stand forth, although a type- written love letter is shorn of much of its senti- ment without the cute little nothings around the margin and between the lines, and a typewritten love letter is a boomerang in court, and another drawback is that it forces us to try to spell correctly. ^ ^ ^ Old Major Sam Banks, of central Kentucky, once told me of his experience with a typewriter. Said he: "I got one of the things and was pounding away, trying to learn on it, and after I got so that I 137 sprigs o' Mint could write a little, I made the horrible dis- covery that about half the words were spelled wrong. I got discouraged, and one morning I said to my old colored servant : 'Mose, take this thing to the lumber room; I can cut and cover with the pen/ " sSs ^f ^f ^^ ^£ ^c ^f ^tc Speaking of spelling, I am reminded of two old magistrates down in western Kentucky. There was a warm spirit of rivalry between them as to which one possessed the greater information and general education. Squire B — did not lose any opportunity to criticise Squire J — , and Squire J — was ready to jump Squire B — on any question. "When it comes to Squire B — ," said Squire J — to me one morning, "wy, he ain't got no more eddication than a gorriller. Would you believe it, that old igneramus spells coffee k-O'-f-f-e-e, when anybody who knows anything at all, knows that it is spelled k-a-u-p-h-y.'' 138 Sprigs o' Mint THE DISORGANIZATION OF RAD'S RUN CHURCH. We were winding slowly through the rocky little road between the hills, and as we came out upon a little creek, known as Rad's Run, I pointed over to an old church building on the hillside, and said:' ''Jed, I am told that ten years ago that old building going to ruin up there was the scene of some of the greatest revivals in this part of the country. Can you tell me why they never meet there any more?" Jed gazed long and earnestly at the old church building, and, as he touched his horse with the whip, he answered : 'That church was thought at one time to be closer to heaven than any spot on this earth, and they had every sample of religion preached thar, from Seven Day Advents to Feet-washin' Baptists — it was a kind o' unity church, and anybody could preach thar who had the wind, and it wa'n't hard to git up the enthoosiasm, for religion was a sort of habit round here then. I've seen 'em sprinkled, baptized, tuck in on probation, kicked out and tuck in with some other denomination inside of sixty days in that same old church. I was down thar one Sun- 139 jprigs o' Mint day when they was hangin' up mottoes on the walls of the church — they was donated by old Bige Rollins, who had struck it in the lottery, and wanted to git his name before the Lord in some shape. The mottoes all had somethin' about ^trust' on them — 'Faith and Trust,' 'Trust in the Lord,' 'The Lord Our Only Trust.' 'T will git back to my subject directly, but right here I want to say that every time I see that word 'trust' it makes me sort o' sick, since we had that turn-about in the sorghum trust up here winter before last. "Me and Hank Cropper, Sol Croxton and all the sorghum molasses makers decided to form a trust and put up the price on sorghum molasses twenty-five cents on the gallon. They got about twenty-three barrels made, and Sol Croxton was made president of the syndicate. He took the molasses to the city, got drunk, and sold it out for most anything he could git, and when he got back and we tackled him, he says : 'Boys, some Republikin buyers got holt of me down thar — I don't know what come of the old sweet sorghum, but I know I had a old sweet time.' One of the boys went back to his mill, and wrote him a sign and put it up, 'My only trust is in God, and thar ain't no sorghum in heaven.' 140 jprigs o' Mint "But speakin' of the church, as I said, there wa'n't no objection to anybody preaching thar, and everybody was welcome to shoot off his mouth, until Bill Warner brings up a long, yaller-whiskered preacher of the Mormon faith — he had been preachin' around on the street corners in town, and Bill said he could snort louder and make more fuss than a hyenar, and Bill was right about the fuss part of it. He boarded with Bill and kinder hipnertized Bill and his wife, fer Bill begin to let his whiskers grow, and lowed that Hiddles could preach at Rad's Run as long as he lived. It was the fust time that there had ever been any kick — it was hinted that Hiddles had five wives in Utah, and was willin' to take five more. Hiddles was game on the woman question, and while he never admitted that he had five wives, yet he said that the Lord didn't think it was a sin for Solomon to have several hundred. He got to preachin' the same old sermon over and over, and there was no doubt that he was drunk some of the time, and at these times he said things that would make a cat tuck his tail. The things got wuss and the denominations said that Mormonism had to go, but Bill Warner said it was Mormonism or nothin', and the more they talked, the more licker Mormon Hiddles put in his hide. 141 Sprigs o' Mint ''The denominations hung a sign on the door one Saturday night which said : 'No more Mormon preachin' here/ but the next day the Warners had old Hiddles in the box. He looked skeered, and the terbacker juice had run down his yaller whiskers till it looked like a washout in a wheat-field. Everything was quiet and the wimmen set close to the winders. Hiddles got up and opened the Bible and says : 'I take my tex' from Romans, vii, 24/ 'No you don't/ says Jonathan Wilson. You could heard a pin drap. Somebody must a stepped on a match, for the shootin' commenced and the wimmen and children begin to yell. Jona- than Wilson was barkin' with an old powder and ball, and every time she yelped about forty pounds of plasterin' fell off. Nobody was killed, though they say the whole book of Luke was shot out of the Bible. "Hiddles got out in some way and lit onto Sam Rogers's old gray mare, and didn't turn her loose until after he had swum the river. "I don't know, but religion sorter played out after that, and the old shetters of the church begin to rot off and the boys made chicken soup on the stove. "There was one old mottO' hangin' above the pulpit: 'Heaven is our home,' and somebody had wrote under the words : 'But hell is for the Mormons.' " 142 sprigs o' Mint THE TALE OF FALLING RIVER. It was at the Soldiers' Home at Pewee Valley. On the lawn sat a group of old soldiers recounting experiences of the war. One old fellow from Nelson County took a good, generous chew of "home-spun," and said: "I had one incident in that war that turned out in a manner that would doubtless be a surprise to you, at least it was to me. It happened at Falling River in Maryland. Our command of cavalry was hotly engaged with a section of Kilpatrick's Michigan cavalry. I was detailed with the hospital corps and was acting as litter-bearer and, of course, didn't bear any arms. In some way I got mixed up in a scrimmage which they were having down in a cherry orchard, and the first thing I knowed I was dodging right and left to save my hide from the rush of horses and saber slashes. "A young officer of the Michigan cavalry wheeled his horse around on me, and before I could figger what he was about he gave me a saber cut across my arm, the scar which you 143 sprigs o' Mint can see now. I made a grab for his bridle- rein, and every time he tried to cut me over the head I would throw the horse's head ir^ front of me. We were havin' it at this gait hot and heavy, he trying his best to split my head open, when another litter-bearer who had gone out with me, picked up a light rail and struck him across the back with it. The rail broke, but the officer turned in his saddle, and with the swiftness of lightning he almost cut the head off of that Alabama soldier v\^ho struck him. He then turned his attention to me again. His eyes were blazing fire. I caught the gleam in them for an instant, but I kept swinging that horse's head. He leaned way over in his saddle, and gritting his teeth said : 'I will kill you if I have to kill this horse.' Just at this point a little fellow from Arkansas laid an old-fashioned rifle across the fence and shot him through the breast. He reeled in his saddle, his saber dropped from his hand. I was at his side, and as he fell from his horse into my arms he said : Tlease send the pack- age home I have in my inside pocket.' The Michigan cavalry had fallen back. I laid him on the ground and he died without a groan. He was one of the handsomest men I ever saw, and one of the d — dest bravest fighters I saw in either army. I was bar' footed and I pro- 144 sprigs o' Mint ceeded to git into his fine cavalry boots, an' they fit Hke they were made for me. I took his carbine and turned his pistols over to some of the other boys, and then I went into his inside pocket for the package he asked me to send home for him. There it was, tied up carefully, like some woman had tied it. I didn't have time to open it, and didn't particu- larly care to. The Yankees were coming back, we were away from our command, and you ought to have seen me cover ground in them fine boots; but I had the little package in my pocket, and I made up my mind to send it to the address that was on it, but jest at that time I wasn't worrying a bit over his death, for if he hadn't have been killed at the time he was I don't think that I would have ever got to enjoy them boots. ''When the war was over, in a short time after that, I returned to Tennessee, whar I lived at the time. I went to work like you other fellows, but about the fust thing my wife and me done was to send that package to the address in Detroit, Michigan. I didn't care to send much of a letter along, but I simply said that he died the death of a brave soldier, and that the last word on his lips was 'mother.' You know that there wasn't much sentiment 145 sprigs o' Mint just after the war in reg-ard to a fellow that had tried to split your head, but I had done my duty in sending back that package. I went to work in the best spirit I had. I followed an old gray mule behind the plow all the summer, and I wore them same boots — they was the best boots I ever saw. I went throusfh the winter with them and fox-hunted with them, but ever}' once in awhile when I would look down at them, I would see that handsome young officer's face, with the pallor of death on it, and hear his last breath gasp 'mother.' "We worked along there in Tennessee for five or six years. I made several good strikes on cotton and other crops, and we finally sold out and come to Nelson County. I made good money out of tobacco and stock, and after I had got to feeling kinder easy, one day I said to my wife : 'Betty, we haven't been anywhere since the war but to Nashville once. Let's shake ourselves and go to see Niagara Falls.' Well, we got ready and went and stayed there till we saw them Falls to our hearts' content, and the day before we left, Betty comes up to me in a sort of timid way, but with a soft look in her eye, like the one she always had when our first boy died, and she says : 'Let's hunt up the address of the woman we sent that pack- age to in Detroit.' I knowed we had to do it, 146 sprigs o' Mint but before I thought, I looked down at my feet, thinking I had them boots on. Betty had the address. We went to Detroit, and found the house, but the people who lived there said the woman of the name had moved up on some other street, she didn't know where, but she said that the druggist over on the corner could probably tell us where she had gone. We went to the druggist and showed him the name. He studied for a while and said: 'Oh, yes; she lives on sech an' sech a avenue.' He wrote it down, and we got up there about 8 o'clock in the night. "Betty rung the bell. A servant girl came to the door and we told her that we wanted to see the mistress of the house. The servant told us to have a seat in the hall, and purty soon a little old dried-up lookin' sort of woman come trippin' down. Her face was kinder peaked, and the expression on her face was like that when you get an unexpected telegram. I didn't wait for her to begin, but I rose up and said: 'Madam, I am the man who sent you the pack- age from your son, who was killed at Falling River.' I knowed she was his mother, for I remembered his face too well, and the old lady kinder sunk down on the step of the stairway and begin to weep kinder soft, and Betty went over to her and they both set there holdin' 147 Sprigs o' Mint hands and softly weepin', and every once in a while I would jerk my feet under me and look down, almost feelin' them boots on my feet again. "Presently the old lady got up and dried her eyes, and she called the servant and told her to serve us some tea, and she asked us to wait until she sent out and got some of the relatives to come in. I thought that maybe she was goin' to start that fight over again to sorter even up matters for the death of her son, but when they all come in I saw that she had sent for them to hear from the lips of the man who had seen her son die, the story of his sacred death to her. I felt like giving Betty a good cussing for getting me there, but I liked the gentle manner of the little old woman more and more. She took us up into the library and there upon the wall hung his picture — the same hand- some face and the fircylit eye which I saw close in death at Falling River, and they asked me to tell the story; but all I could say was that he died the brave death of a soldier and that his last word was 'mother.' "Then the old lady untied the package, and there was her picture, an old daguerreotype, and him a little fellow settin' on her knee and a lock of her hair and his'n all interwoven together, and a little Testament with his name 148 sprigs o' Mint on it. The old lady cried, and Betty and the others cried. I had lost my handkerchief, but I kinder gathered up the table cover and wiped off a little water that was tricklin' down my cheek. After we all had shaken hands good- by and we had got onto the street, my feet ached like they had been mashed in a hay press, but I looked down at them as we trudged along and said : " 'Thank God them boots is wore out.' " 149 sprigs o' Mint "AN EYE FOR AN EYE/' ETC. In the tune and the rhyme of the summer time, When the breeze comes soft from the South- ern streams, Where the pigeons fly in the balmy sky And the hills lay wrapped in their wistful dreams ; Where the blue- jay chants 'mid the leafy haunts. Where the peacock's cry is weird and shrill ; And the scattering bloom, and the rich perfume Of the jasmine vine 'neath the window sill. 'Mid the gold and green of this Southern scene The cooing tones of a child are heard. And the laughter sweet 'round the toddling feet, And a mother's voice with her loving word. And amid this charm, where the heart grows warm. Care flies away as with speedy wings ; And the sun-kissed breeze in the leafy trees A lullaby opes with its whisperings. 150 sprigs o' Mint In this home of love — God in heav'n above, Why should this scene in its beauty close, And this paradise 'neath the sunny skies Be fraught with clouds of bitterest woes? Joy's blessing departs when the black fiend starts To rob the home of its love and peace — The strange, startled scream, and the knife's quick gleam. The life-blood ebbs, and the wild cries cease. And the child that sleeps as the demon creeps, Awakes with a cry of sudden fear; And the knife descends, and the warm blood blends With that of the mother, flowing near. Then sweet, oh sweet, are the sounds that greet The ear — 'tis the bloodhound, baying long, For the trail is warm, and the wild alarm Has gathered a host, both swift and strong. The swamp is deep, and the wild vines creep O'er the stagnant pool and the slimy ground ; But the bloodhound knows where the demon goes. And he leaps with a frantic, fiercer bound. Sprigs o' Mint And the hempen bands, drawn by wilHng hands, The wild, flaming eyes, and the struggHng breath ; For Vengeance has cried, and the cry sweeps wide, And Vengeance this hour seeks naught but death ! *1* *A* %1^ l^ J^ vl* xl^ >JS ^f^ ']> ^f^ *(* ^f* 'I* 't* The magnohas bloom o'er the mother's tomb, Where mother and child have slept so long ; But the bloodhound's chain will be loosed again When Vengeance cries for a nameless wrong. 152 sprigs o' Mint OLE UNCLE ABE. Ole Uncle Abe is bline, you know, Eyes went out long years ago Down in the mine at Carson's mill — Hain't seen since, an' never will. But ole Uncle Abe he never fret. An' laugh an' say, ''De day come yet When somebody come an' tech my eye. An' de light will come yet, bye an' bye." Ole Uncle Abe he wander down Thro' de big beech woods and ketch de soun' Uv de creek what runs to de ribber side. An' he fine de spot whar de red-birds hide. An' he set 'n de bank an' he hear de song, An' he hear de creek as she swing along. An' he take off his hat an' he rub his eye. An' he say, "I will see you bye an' bye." An' he drum his han' on de ole beech log, An' he whistle a tune to his yaller dog. An' de little ole dog wid de stumpy tail He howl an' whine, and he sorter wail. An' he lick de han' dat has been so kine, Kase he know Uncle Abe is ole an' bline. An' ole Uncle Abe he say, "Le's go Down to de fiel' whar de green grass grow. 153 sprigs o' Mint An' I'll run my han' in de juicy blade As we set down thar in de spreadin' shade, An' we'll ketch de breeze frum de sof blue sky, An' I'm gwine ter see it, bye an' bye." Ole Uncle Abe, de spring has gone. An' summer time has done come on, An' de summer's past, an' den de fall. Still ole Uncle Abe can't see at all. An' de winter time when dey laid him low In his narrer grave so white wid snow, An' I know Uncle Abe has opened his eyes Somewhar up thar 'roun' Perrydise. 154 sprigs o' Mint THE DOWNFALL OF REV. DUCKEY. For years and years the little town of G- had been enjoying a peaceful and happy exist- ence, the white portion of the population serene in their frugal method of living — frugal in the sense of frowning down any unnecessary extravagance, but knowing all the comforts^ of good housekeeping according to the proportion of their incomes, with good and well-trained servants from the colored population, and this element had been contented and faithful in their duties, at least until the appearance of Rev. "Duckey in the town. The aforesaid proclaimer of the Word hailed from an Ohio town, and heralded himself as a man of high attainments and as a special emancipator of his race from the many burdens said to be piling upon them. Duckey was short and heavy-set, yellow- skinned, and with a smirk on his face which told of his self-consuming opinion of impor- tance, and his first work along the line of elevating his race was by way of imparting the startling information that, as descendants of Egyptian and African kings, they should take their positions on an equal footing, if not above IS5 Sprigs o' Mint the white brethren, and in the Httle colored school the word went out that colored children were not to give up any portion of the sidewalks to white children, but to hold their rights in everything, and, as a consequence, several "coon" pupils appeared in school with "skinned" heads, the results of Duckey's idea of "rights." Servants were becoming scarce — ^they didn't like to do the work of the kitchen under the spell of Duckey's new dispensation. A number of negro men were idling away their time, and the white folks began to put things under a stronger lock and key. Duckey was glowing under the change which he found he was bring- ing about, but, from some cause, his salary was not coming in with the promptness he desired, and, unknown to this mulatto of greater parts, there was gathering a storm which was to blow him and his theories into unexpected oblivion. Old Uncle Jasper Harper had filled the pulpit in the colored Baptist church for years before the arrival of Duckey, and he had laid before his people the plain truths as he knew them, and, above everything, he had endeavored to show them that without the friendship of the whites they would be as helpless as babes in their endeavors. But Uncle Jasper had been sidetracked by Duckey, for Uncle Jasper was black and very old-fashioned in his sing-song 156 sprigs o' Mint way. Uncle Jasper didn't indorse the teach- ings of Duckey, and he hastened to let both white and black know it, and he had advised with his white friends as to the best course to pursue, and they cannot tell you to this day just how it was done, but Duckey was taken from his boarding-house by a party of men who were not even masked, and they 'Wode Duckey on a rair to the creek, and they put him under strong and deep, and after each immersion a voice which sounded strangely like Uncle Jasper's would say: "Once more, he ain't clean yit." The Rev. Duckey eloquently pleaded for his life, and was given ten minutes to disappear, and after he had gone Uncle Jasper made a sweeping bow to the ''committee" and said: "God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perfo'm." The following Sunday found Uncle Jasper in the pulpit, and his people welcomed his honest and earnest face. Among other things he said : "When you is gittin' er long well, keep er gittin' er long well, an' doan' let people preach to you 'bout no race problerm. When you is tryin' to do de bes' yo kin, hit hain't no prob- lerm for a white man to help a 'spectable nigger, when dat nigger shows dat he wan' to do the right thing ; an' hit tain't no problerm for a nigger when he gits in a tight place an' Is 157 sprigs o' Mint bleeged to have sho' nuff help — he goes to a white man, an' mos' ginnerly a white Demmer- crat, too. "Doan' talk to me 'bout de upliftin' uv de race. All de niggers, fum Bookah Washing- ton down to dat nasty little Duckey, carn't uplif you if you doan' git a good foothol' an' push yo' lazy hide up, an' yo's 9:ot to work, an' yo's got to do de bes' work yo kin git ; an' 'member what I tell yo, keep de good will uv de white man of dis hyar South, fo' he is our frien' ; he knows de good ones uv us, an' yo bet he knows de no 'count ones, an' a no 'count white man hain't gwine ter have de 'spec' uv anybody." Uncle Jasper turned to leave the pulpit. "Jes' a word afore I close. Deacon Franklin has a posterl kyad from dat Duckey, sayin' if he doan' git his salary dat he g'wine ter sue de chutch. What air de will of de chutch?" ''I move," says Brother Franklin, ''dat de res' uv Duckey's salary be voted to Brother Jasper." "Amen !" said Brother Jasper. is8 Sprigs o' Mint SOME SUPERSTITIONS. The editor of the county paper has had the peach tree and cherry Hmb and water witch business worked on him. The first time I saw this test made was in Alabama — they call the switches "wilier wan's" down there. I certainly saw the switches — I used to long for water many a time when I saw the switches turn at school — good, cool water to sit down in. But, seriously, these w^ater witches carry a very mysterious air about them — they slip along as if guided by a magic power, and they find water, and I notice that other folks always find water, too, even though they haven't the witch power; but I do not care to take a jot away from this time-honored institution, for I am superstitious myself. I believe that a hair in the butter shows conclusively that something has queered the churning. To find a beer chip in the pocket next morn- ing is a bad sign. To go to bed with one's boots on is a bad omen — he is sure to awaken with great trouble — ahead. 159 Sprigs o* Mint Eating with a knife is another bad sign ; there have been instances where men and women have cut their throats in this way. To find a pin with a point to you, if it is in your clothes, augurs of evil. To heai a dog howl when you are trying to sleep is a bad sign — for the dog. I always shudder when I see a rabbit crossing the road, but I thank the Lord that it wasn't a pole-cat. I never get along this line of superstition, but I am reminded of a case in Tennessee. The cook where I boarded was going to get married. The next morning she was at her old place look- ing rather crestfallen, and I said : ^'Milly, did you get married last night?" "No, sah," she replied. "What was the trouble?" I asked. "Dar whuz thirteen people dar." "Well, why didn't you send out and get the fourteenth man?" "Pap did go out an' try to 'swade him ter come in, but he wudden' cum." "Who was he, Milly?" "He war de man I 'spected ter marry." i6o sprigs o' Mint I have buried a friend to-day, And the restless world would smile to know That a friend can come and a friend can go Whose tongue ne'er spoke to call my name. But still a friend, with every claim Upon my heart, — its tenderest care. The pleasures which we both did share In other days, when autumn skies Were kissed with blue from Paradise, When thro' the field and valley wide We caught God's breath from every side, And in the sapphire's tinted glow Of changing woodlands we could know That sweet contentment of their shades — The rustling leaves, the sombre glades, — And there alone we caught the cry Of forest birds and saw them fly Through that ambrosial sea of air. Each joyous wing that fluttered there And faded in the far away. Brought to the heart a restless thrill — All over valley, over hill That melancholy sweetness spread And iii our souls its peace was shed. i6i sprigs o' Mint I have buried a friend to-day, No' marble shaft will mark his mound, But in the damp and murky ground He'll sleep remembered by a friend Who loved him till the journey's end. No more we'll hear the partridge wing From out the stubble, watch them swing Upon the course, no more we'll hear The happy voices gath'ring near When day is done, when the hunt is o'er. The back-log's light upon the floor. When pipes and stories shift along. And voices in some old sweet song — Oh, happy days, to come no more. For you, old Ned, the hunt is o'er. 162 WAY 2 ISO 6