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Ole Mistis 
 
 AND OTHER SONGS AND 
 STORIES FROM TENNESSEE 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a SUMMER HYMNAL," 
 
 "the bishop of cottontown," etc. 
 
 -ILLUSTRATED BY- 
 
 HOWARD WEEDEN AND ROBERT DICKEY 
 
 THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO 
 

 V \ 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY 
 JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
 HENRY T. COATES & CO. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY 
 THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO, 
 
 (Ole Mistis) 
 
 LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 APR 29 1909 
 
 _, Copyrlgnt Entry 
 CLASS Ol^ XXc. No. 
 PY B. 
 
 croF 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 nPHIS is a very large world, and so I have not 
 -^ tried to cover, in this little book, any very 
 great portion of it ; but have contented myself 
 in a faithful endeavor to describe, truthfully, life 
 as it has been, and is, in the Middle Basin of 
 Tennessee — the Blue Grass Plot of the State. 
 
 And this spot is rich in history and tradition^ 
 so rich that for years 1 fretted because no gifted 
 one of its citizens would arise and tell to the 
 world, in story and in song, the earnest life, the 
 sweet simplicity, the matchless beauty, the un- 
 published glory of its land and its folk. And 
 when none arose, week after week, without a 
 thought that what was hastily written for an 
 obscure department of^ a country paper would 
 be found worthy of compilation, I have only 
 attempted to do what a greater one should have 
 
 done. 
 
 iii 
 
Preface 
 
 To those who will read this book, the author 
 begs them to bear in mind that he does not claim 
 for these little peoples of his brain any great 
 amount of genius or originality. But he does 
 claim that, though decked in homespun and 
 homeliness, they are the faithful little children of 
 their own bright land, the truthful representa- 
 tives of the one dear spot, fresh from the fields 
 and the forests, the paddocks and the pens of the 
 Middle Basin. 
 
 It is customary with some authors to dedicate 
 their books to others. To my father. Judge 
 John Moore, and my mother, Emily Adelia Bil- 
 lingslea, both of whom yet live in the old home 
 at Marion, Alabama, 1 dedicate this, an un- 
 finished tribute of my love and honor, a half- 
 expressed token of the gratitude I owe them. 
 
 JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. 
 
 IV 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Basin of Tennessee, i 
 
 Ole Mistis, 
 
 
 
 
 lO 
 
 Miss Kitty's Fun'ral, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 48 
 
 The Wolf Hunt on Big Bigby, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 78 
 
 Gray Gamma, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 86 
 
 The Mule Race at Ashwood, 
 
 
 
 
 . 98 
 
 The Tennessee Girl and the Pacing N 
 
 lare, . 
 
 
 
 . 103 
 
 ♦'Dick," 
 
 
 
 
 no 
 
 Nora, 
 
 
 
 
 131 
 
 The Spelling Match at Big Sandy, 
 
 
 
 
 138 
 
 How Robert J. Broke the Record, 
 
 
 
 
 144 
 
 How Old Wash Sold the Filly, . 
 
 
 
 
 149 
 
 How Old Wash Captured a Gun, 
 
 
 
 
 157 
 
 Br'er Washington's Arraignment, 
 
 
 
 
 163 
 
 A Cavalry Drill in Old Tennessee, 
 
 
 
 
 175 
 
 The True Singer, 
 
 
 
 
 191 
 
 How the Bishop Broke the Record, 
 
 
 
 
 194 
 
 First Monday in Tennessee, 
 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 Yesterday, .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 214 
 
 The Juliet of the Grasses, • 
 
 
 
 
 
 217 
 
 Hal Pointer on Memorial Day, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 224 
 
 Sam Davis, 
 
 
 
 
 
 231 
 
 The Lily of Fort Custer, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 240 
 
 The Flag of Green's Brigade, 
 
 
 
 
 
 256 
 
 By the Little Big- Horn, . 
 
 V 
 
 
 
 
 
 258 
 
Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thoroughbreds, 261 
 
 " Wearing the Gray," 265 
 
 The Bells of Atlanta, 267 
 
 The Tennesseean to the Flag, 272 
 
 Tennessee, 274 
 
 To a Wild Rose on an Indian Grave, . . . 279 
 
 The Blue-Grass Plot, 281 
 
 To a Sweet Pea, 283 
 
 The Hills, 284 
 
 To a Mocking-Bird in the Pine-Top, .... 286 
 
 A Harvest Song, 289 
 
 The Old Meadow Spring, . . . . . .291 
 
 Sleeping, 293 
 
 To the Spirit of May, 294 
 
 Clouds, 296 
 
 Sunset on the Tennessee, 296 
 
 Morning, 297 
 
 Under the Pines, 298 
 
 The Music of the Pines, 299 
 
 The Evening Star, 302 
 
 To a Morning Glory, 302 
 
 The Summer of Long Ago, . . . . . 303 
 
 Truth in Beauty, 305 
 
 The Faith of Old, 307 
 
 Christmas Morn, ....... 309 
 
 Alone, . 309 
 
 To Whittier, Dead, 310 
 
 The Church of the Heart, 311 
 
 The Christ-Star has Risen, 312 
 
 A Memory, 313 
 
 vi 
 
Contents 
 
 Eulalee, .... 
 
 A Morning Ride, 
 
 Immortality, 
 
 Life's Christmas, 
 
 Beauty, .... 
 
 It Can Not Be, . 
 
 A Little Cry in the Night, . 
 
 'Tis But a Dream, 
 
 The Pines of Monterey, 
 
 To an American Boy, . 
 
 Our Bob, .... 
 
 To Burns, .... 
 
 Work Through it All, 
 
 Mollie, 
 
 O Voices that Long Ago Left Me, 
 A Ray from Calvary, 
 Marjorie, .... 
 Blue Jay, .... 
 Success, .... 
 When the Colts are in the Ring, 
 Fair Times in Old Tennessee, 
 The Rabbit Trap, 
 "Huntin' o' the Quail," . 
 When de Fat am on de Possum, 
 Little Sam, .... 
 
 Lettie, 
 
 The Old Plantation, . 
 Reconciliation, 
 Longin' fur Tennessee, 
 Wonderful Men, . 
 
 vii 
 
 314 
 314 
 316 
 
 317 
 318 
 319 
 320 
 321 
 322 
 323 
 324 
 325 
 326 
 327 
 328 
 329 
 329 
 332 
 
 335 
 336 
 338 
 339 
 341 
 344 
 345 
 347 
 349 
 
 351 
 352 
 
 355 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE BASIN OF TENNESSEE. 
 
 THE Middle Basin is the dimple of the Uni- 
 verse. 
 
 About equal in area to Lake Ontario — nearly 
 6cxx) square miles — situated in Middle Tennessee 
 and surrounded by the Highland Rim, it is one 
 of those peculiar geological formations made long 
 ago when the earth was young. In altitude, but 
 little higher than the first plateau beyond the 
 Mississippi ; in shape, oval and symmetrical as 
 the tapering turn of an egg shell cut lengthwise ; 
 in depth, from 500 to 1000 feet — deep enough to 
 break the force of the wind, and yet high enough 
 to concentrate, as by a focus, the slanting sun- 
 beams and the shadows. 
 
 Away back in the past it was once the bed of 
 a silver shining lake. But whether its waves 
 boiled beneath a torrid sun, lashed into foam by 
 saurian battles, or whether glacial icebergs sunk 
 their crystal pillars in its depths and lifted their 
 diatnond-turreted peaks to the steel-cold stars of 
 an unanswering heaven, no one will ever know. 
 
 And what became of it ? We shall never 
 know. Perhaps an earthquake rent its natural 
 levees, and it fled with the Cumberland or the 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Tennessee to the gulf. Perhaps the mighty Mis- 
 sissippi brushed with his rough waves too closely 
 to the western border of our calm lake one day, 
 and she went with him, a willing captive, to the 
 sea. Or, she may have passed out down the 
 dark channels of some mammoth cave whose 
 caverns have never yet heard the sound of 
 human voice — we know not. All we know is, 
 the lake was here — the lake is gone. Time is 
 long. 
 
 The mound-builders were not here then, for 
 they have dotted its fertile basin with a thousand 
 voiceless monuments of a voiceless age. Time is 
 long. The lake was here — the lake is gone. 
 
 But when it went, it left the sweet richness of 
 its farewell kiss upon the lips of our valleys, and 
 the fullness of its parting tears on the cheeks of 
 our hills. It made the loam and the land, the 
 spirit and the springs, the creeks and the cream 
 of the Middle Basin of Tennessee — the Blue 
 Grass Plot of the State 
 
 An animal is the product of the environments 
 that surround him — the blossom of the soil upon 
 which he lives. He is part of the sunlight and 
 the grass, the rock and the water, the grain and 
 the gravel, the air which he breathes and the 
 ant-hill which he crushes beneath his feet. Man 
 ,, is the highest animal. Then behold the man of 
 ■^ the Middle Basin, the highest development of the 
 animal creation : Jackson, Crockett, Houston, 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Bell, Polk, Gentry, Maury, Forrest — these and 
 thousands of others whose names and fame are 
 fadeless. 
 
 The life of man is what he makes it ; and of 
 a state what man makes it. And so, in the course 
 of time, the two become as one — the men become 
 the state while the state is ever but its men. 
 Character is what we are ; reputation is what we 
 are supposed to be, 'tis said. A history of the 
 Middle Basin, then, is but a record of the char- 
 acter of the people who have lived and died there. 
 If she did great things in the past, it was because 
 she had great characters in the past. The wis- 
 dom of those ancient Greeks who taught their 
 children that they were descended from the gods 
 is to be admired ; had they not, I doubt if the 
 Greeks had acted like the gods, as they did when 
 they met the Persians at Thermopylae and Sala- 
 mis, and, even that far back, made the story of 
 the Middle Basin a possibility. 
 
 Our ideals, at last, are the true gauges of our 
 characters, and the higher we rear these castles 
 in the air, the loftier will our own soul-dwellings 
 be. Let us build our characters as we would our 
 castles, alike beyond the reach of those who 
 climb and those who throw. For the ideal and 
 the real go together. The dream must precede 
 the chisel, the vision be father to the brush, the 
 thought to the pen. 
 
 Briefly stated, our forefathers of the Middle 
 
 3 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 'to 
 
 Basin came from North Carolina and Virginia, 
 and when they came over the mountain they 
 brought its granite with them. 
 
 Mountains and hills have always produced 
 genius and liberty. There is a divine spirit that 
 dwells in the rarefied air of hill-tops, that is 
 incompatible with ease, with slavery and with 
 sloth. It seems to permeate the souls of those 
 who breathe it, to lift them above the sordidness 
 of that wealth which accumlates in the valleys 
 but for decay. 
 
 Andrew Jackson was their type and, like him, 
 their deeds will live forever. 
 
 Down the long aisle of the centuries to the 
 
 organ notes of fame 
 Stalks a silent figure hallowed in the light 
 
 of glory's name ; 
 Stalks a grand, majestic manhood to those 
 
 eon fields to be, 
 A spiritual pyramid in the land of memory. 
 
 And if we cannot prove that we are descended 
 from the gods, we can at least demonstrate that 
 we are the children of god-like men and women 
 — and that is better. 
 
 Years have passed and yet the Middle Basin is 
 as rich and beautiful to-day, in the green dressing 
 of autumn's after grasses, as she was on that 
 memorable day, years ago, when Hood's army, 
 
 4 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 on its march to Nashville, came thundering with 
 thirty-five thousand men over Sand Mountain 
 from the bloody fields around Atlanta. The 
 Tennessee troops, as a guard of honor, led the 
 advance. For days they marched among the 
 '*old red hills of Georgia," the pines of North 
 Alabama and the black-jacks of the Highland 
 Rim. But suddenly, as they wheeled in on the 
 plateau beyond Mt. Pleasant, a beautiful picture 
 burst on their view. Below them, like a vision, 
 lay the border land of the Middle Basin — a sea 
 of green and golden ; green, for the trough of the 
 land waves, somber in the setting sun, had taken 
 on the emerald hues of the pasture grasses ; 
 golden, for the swelling hills, where rolled the 
 woodlands, were studded with the bright gold 
 foliage of autumn leaves, nipped by the early 
 frosts. Farm house and fences, orchards and 
 open field, meadow and meandering streams, 
 newly plowed wheat fields and rustling rows of 
 trembling corn, all basking in the quiet glory of 
 mellow sunlight, formed a picture so restful to 
 the eye of the tired soldier and so sweet and 
 soothing to the homesick heart, that involuntarily 
 his old slouched hat came off, his musket shifted 
 to ** present arms," and a genuine rebel yell 
 rolled from regiment to regiment, from brigade to 
 brigade, as this splendid master-piece of nature 
 unfolded before them. 
 
 "Have we struck the enemy's picket already?" 
 
 5 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 asked the thoughtful Hood, now thoroughly 
 aroused and his keen eyes taking on the flash 
 of battle. 
 
 "No, General, but we've struck God's coun- 
 try," shouted a ragged soldier present, as he 
 saluted and joined in swelling the volume of the 
 reverberating yell. 
 
 Even the gallant Cleburne, Honor's own 
 soldier, the man whose matchless brigade a year 
 before, at the retreat from Chickamauga, had 
 stopped Grant's whole army at Ringgold Gap, 
 tipped a soldier's salute to the quiet church-yard 
 at Ashwood, and expressed the wish, if he fell in 
 the coming battle, he might sleep his last sleep 
 there. Prophetic wish ! With thirteen other 
 field officers he fell, a few days afterward, around 
 the bloody breastworks of Franklin, and yielded 
 up his life " as a holocaust to his country's 
 cause." 
 
 But even War — the cloven-footed curse that 
 he is — could not blanch her cheek save for a 
 moment, and as soon as the last echo of his tread 
 had died away, she aroused again to life, with a 
 wreath of emerald on her brow, the blush of the 
 clover blossoms on her cheek, the sparkle of her 
 own bright springs in her eye, and the song of 
 the reaper in her ear. 
 
 Upon the knolls where cannon hurled 
 Their deadly grape between, 
 6 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 The stately locusts have unfurled 
 Their flag of white and green. 
 
 And o'er the ridge upon the crest 
 
 Where gleamed the flashing blade, 
 
 The serried rows of corn, abreast 
 Stand out on dress parade. 
 
 Adown the slope where once did reel 
 
 The stubborn ranks of gray, 
 Now speeds the flying reaper's wheel — 
 
 Now charge the ranks of bay. 
 And down the vale where marched the blue 
 
 With band and banner fme, 
 The frisky lambs in ranks of two 
 
 Deploy their skirmish line. 
 
 And so is she rich in climate and in soil ; but 
 richer far in the memory of heroic men — in lives 
 that shall live and a beauty that shall never die: 
 
 O, the glorious Middle Basin, 
 
 The rose in Nature's wreath ! 
 With her purpling sky and her hills on high 
 
 And her blue grass underneath. 
 'Tis here our fathers built their homes, 
 'Tis here their sons are free — 
 For the fairest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 7 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 O, the fertile Middle Basin ! 
 
 Proud Egypt's threshing floor 
 Held not in the chain of her golden grain 
 
 Such fields as lie at our door. 
 Our daughters grow like olive plants 
 Our sons like the young oak tree — 
 For the richest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 O, the joyous Middle Basin, 
 
 Land of the mocking-bird ! 
 Where the flying feet of our horses fleet 
 
 In front of the race are heard. 
 They get their gameness from our soil, 
 Their spirit will ever be — 
 For the merriest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 O, the loyal Middle Basin ! 
 
 So quick for fife and drum ! 
 She stood in the breach on the cresent beach 
 
 When the hated foe had come. 
 Her Jackson made our nation safe, 
 Her Polk an Empire free — 
 For the truest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 8 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 O, the glorious Middle Basin ! 
 Can we be false to thee ? 
 Sweet land where the earth and the sky 
 give birth 
 To the spirit of Liberty ! 
 Not while our maids have virtue, 
 Not while our sons are free — 
 For the fairest land 
 From God's own hand 
 Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
 
 9 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 OLE MISTIS. 
 
 A BRIGHT, sunny morning, about fifty years 
 ago, in a valley of the Middle Basin of 
 Tennessee. A handsome brick residence, with 
 sturdy pillars and flanking galleries, on a grassy 
 knoll that slopes up from a winding pike. Barns, 
 whitewashed and clean as a sanded kitchen floor ; 
 fences, shining in long lines in the hazy, spring 
 sunlight ; orchards, in bloom and leaf ; wheat- 
 fields, stretching away in billowy freshness, turn- 
 ing now to amber, now to emerald, as the west 
 wind laughed across them. Further on, a 
 meadow, dotted with sheep and cattle, while 
 nearer the house, and to the right, a narrower 
 meadow of bluegrass, through which merrily 
 leaped a sparkling branch whose source was in a 
 large stone dairy near the house. This meadow 
 had been divided into paddock after paddock, 
 each containing a handsome mare or two, with 
 foal at her side. 
 
 This is the home of Col. James Dinwiddle, the 
 courtliest gentleman, best farmer, kindest friend, 
 most relentless enemy, most charitable neighbor, 
 
 lO 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 nerviest gambler, and owner of some of the best 
 race horses in Tennessee. 
 
 *' Horse racing/' he has said a hundred times, 
 " is the sport of the gods. A man must breed 
 horses twenty or thirty years and have his an- 
 cestors do the same, too^ before he can become 
 an all around gentleman. The proper study of 
 mankind, sir — with due respect to Alexander 
 Pope — is horsekind. Gambling on horseraces is 
 wrong — of course it is, sir. It's wrong just like 
 it's wrong to gamble on the price of wheat or 
 corn, or city lots, or to raffle off cakes and quilts 
 at church festivals, or to run up a bill at your 
 grocer's when the chances are ten to one you'll 
 never pay it — wrong, all wrong, sir. But how 
 are you going to stop it ? I, for one, shall not try. 
 The Dinwiddies can show ten generations of 
 gentlemen, sir, and not a single hypocrite " — and 
 he would invite you out to a paddock to see a 
 stallion he had lately imported from England. 
 *'The winner of the Derby, sir," he would add 
 as he looked him critically over ; " the winner of 
 the Derby, while kings and princesses looked on 
 in admiration and delight." 
 
 The day wears dreamily on, being one of those 
 spring days when wanton May, coquetting both 
 with April and June, varies her moods to suit 
 each ardent wooer. Everything is busy grow- 
 ing — too busy to attend to anything but its own 
 affairs. Even Brutus, the Colonel's negro jockey, 
 
 II 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 was rubbing with more than usual attention a 
 magnificent blood-like gray mare half covered 
 with a costly all-wool blanket, on which the 
 Dinwiddle monogram was stitched in red silk. 
 In the clean, newly-swept hallway she stood, 
 impatiently enough, with the cooling bridle on, 
 her keen ears now flashing forward, as some ob- 
 ject attracted her attention in front, now laid 
 back threateningly on her neck as the vigorous 
 jockey rubbed too ardently her steaming sides — 
 for he had just given her her morning work-out — 
 and champing incessantly the bright round 
 snaffle-bit in the loosely-fitting head stall. An 
 imp of a darkey, twelve or fifteen years old, 
 small, wiry, with quick, sharp eyes, sits just out 
 of reach of the mare's heels on an upturned peck 
 measure, and watches like a cat every movement 
 of the deft rubber. 
 
 Jake, as his name went, was a privileged char- 
 acter. " The mascot of the barn," as the Colo- 
 nel called him, " and we can't get along without 
 him — him and the rat terrier. Just watch them, 
 Brutus," he had said only yesterday to the new 
 jockey he had lately imported from New Orleans 
 to ride his horses and superintend his stable, " and 
 don't let them go to sleep in the stall with Old 
 Mistis or get too near the mare's heels. With 
 any of the other horses it makes little difference. 
 My luck would desert me if either of them got 
 hurt." 
 
 12 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 To-day Jake was taking his first opportunity 
 to tell the new jockey all he knew. 
 
 ** You gotter be mighty keerful dar, wid Ole 
 Mistis,'* he said, as the mare raised a hind foot 
 threateningly from a too careless stroke of the 
 rubber, *' mighty keerful. She's er oncommon 
 kuis mair an' wuf all de res' ob de string. Didn't 
 ole Marster tell you you mustn't nurver try to 
 rub her off 'twellyou's fust cleaned off her face 
 — de berry op'site from eny yuther boss ? He 
 ain't ? Wal, it's a good thing I tole you, or you'd 
 er bin kicked ober de barn ! An' didn't he tell 
 you erbout de warterin' ob her, dat she didn't 
 drink spring warter like de yuthers, but you had 
 to warter her outen de cistern whar de white 
 folks drinks ? He ain't ? Wal, you jes' try her 
 now. She'll die ob thirstivashun afore she'll 
 drink a drap unless it cums outen de cistern. I'm 
 de onliest one dat understan's dis mair, an' dat's 
 er fac," said the imp, as he arose from his im- 
 provised seat and ran a hand down into a jean 
 pocket where he had stored away a bright carrot. 
 Slipping carelessly under the ma'^e's flank, before 
 the jockey could stop him, he bobbed up suddenly 
 under her nose and presented to her the rich 
 vegetable, exclaiming : " Heah, you gray ghost, 
 faster'n greased lightnin' down er skinned syc- 
 ermore, an' meaner'n de debil to his muddern- 
 law — take dis!" and the bit stopped rattling in 
 her nervous jaws as she proceeded to devour the 
 
 13 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 carrot, after which she whinnied and then rubbed 
 her nose affectionately on a closely cropped, 
 woolly head, with every sign of satisfaction. 
 **Take me outer dis heah barn," remarked the 
 little darkey pompously, as he strolled back to 
 his seat, catching the mare playfully by the tail 
 as he passed, '* an' dis mair would kill sum nigger 
 befo* night. I'm de onliest one dat understan's 
 her, an' ole Marster '11 tell you so. Didn't he 
 nurver tell you how I made Ole Mistis win de ten 
 t'ousan' dollars at de big race las' spring ? He 
 ain't ? Wal, he mayn't tole it to you, but I've 
 heurd 'im tell it to de guv'ners, majahs an' jedges 
 dat visits him, when dey sets out in de frunt 
 peazzer an' smokes at night, an' dey nearly die 
 laffm'. 'Sides dat, it's bin rit in de papers, mun ! 
 " You see we got holt of er fool heah las' year 
 dat thout de way ter train bosses wus ter beat 
 'em. We didn't kno' he wus dat way at de time 
 or we wouldn't er hi'ed 'im. We b'leeves in 
 kindness heah ; we don't beat noboddy 'cept dey 
 b'leeged ter have it — noboddy but my mammy. 
 Aunt Fereby, de cook. She beats me nigh ter 
 death sumtimes, 'kase I'm her onliest chile an' 
 she's tryin* ter raise me right, an' Marster says 
 he 'lows it 'kase she's de onliest one on de place 
 dat knows dey've got de genuwine religun. Wal, 
 dis fellow we got, tried ter train Ole Mistis dar, 
 an' lacter ruined her. She won't take no beatin'. 
 No, siree ; why, man, dat mair's by Sir Archie, 
 
 14 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 fus* dam by Bosting, secun' dam by Diermeed, 
 third dam by Flyin' Childen, fourth dam by 
 'Merican 'Clipse, an' so on fur twenty mo' — I've 
 heard ole Marster tell it er hunded times. Wal, 
 de end ob it wus we jes' had de oberseer gib dat 
 nigger a cow-hidin' and saunt him erway ; an' 
 we turned Ole Mistis out on de frunt lawn to try 
 an' furgit it. An' dat's whar I fell in lub wid 
 her. I ain't got nuffm' ter do but to tote de 
 kitchin wood in fer mammy, an' I uster go out 
 dar an' feed Ole Mistis apples an' sech lak, an' 
 one day Marster tried 'er agin on de track, wid 
 me dar to be wid 'er, an' she run lak a skeered 
 deer wid de houns at her heels. Ole Marster 
 laf an' say, * By de eternal ! but dat boy am a 
 reg'lar muscat — he bring me good luck !' and 
 he twell 'em to take me to de big race wid 'em 
 at Nashville de nex' month. Jiminy ! But didn't 
 we hab a good time on de road ? We hitched up 
 de fo' mule team an' put all our things in an' 
 went 'long in style. Ole Marster went 'long in de 
 kerridge wid Mis' Anne — dat's de young mistis — 
 an' Cap'n Sidney— dat's her bow — I hates dat 
 white man, he's so mean — an' we eben carry de 
 borrow an' de big pair Devum steers to pull it. 
 * What you gwine carry dis borrow fur an' dis ox 
 team, Kunnel ?' said de Sidney man when we 
 started. ' Bekase, sah,' said ole Marster, * my 
 bosses can't run ober pavements, an' dat's whut 
 dey had to do de las' time 1 wus dar. Dat crowd 
 
 15 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 up dar too stingy to keep de tracks borrowed, 
 sah,* an* we all went on. Wal, sah, I slep* in 
 de stall wid Ole Mistis ebry night an* she nurver 
 tromped on me nary time. De mornin* ob de 
 race dar wus de bigges' crowd I eber seen. 
 *Twas down in de ole clober bottom, whar dey 
 say Gineral Jackson useter race ; an' bright an* 
 early ole Marster rid out to de stable on de track 
 an' tell de head jockey to hook up de par of 
 Devum steers to de borrow an' make me bor- 
 row de track for Ole Mistis — an' den he rid off 
 sum'ers. Dey put me on de off steer an' gin 
 me a big stick, an' I went 'roun' an' 'roun' dat 
 track twell I got mighty tired. An' dey guyed 
 me an' hollered at me up at de gran' stan'. An' 
 one man laffed an' hollered to sum mo' dar in er 
 little stan' by deyself an' said, * Time 'em, 
 gineral, ef dey ain't goin' too fas' fur yore 
 watch,' an' den dey all look at me an' de two 
 steers an' laf. ' But,' thinks I to myself, 'ebry 
 man gotter start at de bottom ef he 'specks to 
 rise, an', dough I'm gwine 'roun' on a steer now, 
 dey am good ones, an' dese folks will yet lib to 
 see me go 'roun' on dis track on de bes' piece 
 ob boss flesh dat eber stood on iron.' I kin stan' 
 white folks laffin' at me, but de nex' time I cum 
 'roun' dar wus some little niggers laffin' an' 
 throwin' clods, an' it made my blood bile. 
 Torectly one on 'em got up clos' to me an' I 
 hauled off an' fotch 'im a whack on de head wid 
 
 i6 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 my stick, but de nex' one I hit I missed, an' hit 
 de ox on de tip ob his big horn an' knocked de 
 shell off clear down to his head. Wal, when ole 
 Marster cum he was sho' mad, 'kase he thout a 
 heap ob de steers, an' it sp'iled de match to have 
 one on 'em wid de horn off, an' he ax' de jockey> 
 *who dun it?' An' de jockey said, 'Ax Jake/ 
 An' he ax me whut I do hit fur, an' he wouldn't 
 b'leeve me when I tole him 'bout de little nig- 
 gers, an' he took his ridin' whip an' started to 
 lambas' me. But it was den prutty nigh time to 
 race an' he changed his mind an' said : * No ; I 
 won't whip you ; you won't mind dat ; but I'll 
 hurt you wusser — I'll lock you up in de stable 
 an' you shan't see Ole Mistis run her race.' 
 
 **Wal, sah, dat lacter kill me. I beg 'im to 
 gib me a good 'un but let me see de race ! I 
 cried an' I hollered, but ole Marster had 'em shut 
 me up an' lock me in an' dar I wus. Wal, de 
 crov/d guthered an* dc ban' played an' de bosses 
 cum out, an' I looked through de crack an' seed 
 Ole Mistis wid our colors up an' eb'rybody 
 hoorayin', an' I jes' couldn't stan' it ! I knowed 
 ole Marster wus busy an' he'd forgot all erbout 
 me an' I jes' dug out dat stable like a rat, an' 
 slipped up to de three-quarter pole whar de 
 bosses cum doun fur de wurd. Wal, sah, you 
 orter seed dat race ; hit wus a corker ef dey 
 eber wus one. I furgot I wus erlive — I seemed 
 to be in ernuther wurld — I didn't think ob the 
 
 2 ly 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Devum steers no mo' — 'twus glory hallieluyar, 
 cinnerman bark an' pep'mint candy, two circuses 
 an' er watermelon patch, moonshine and heabenly 
 angels, an' I turned er summerset, I felt so good, 
 an* hollered to de common niggers erround me es 
 loud es I could : * Look at Ole Mistis ! Look at 
 Ole Mistis ! Jes' lookit my mair !' An' jes' 'bout 
 den dey cum 'roun' doun our way an' ernudder 
 hoss shot by Ole Mistis an' de niggers all laf an' 
 holler, * Whar am Ole Mistis now ?' an' hit made 
 me so mad I jumped on de fense an' jes' es de 
 mair cum by I hollered at 'er wid all my might : 
 * Look out, Ole Mistis ! Look out, Ole Mistis ! 
 Look out ! Fur Gord sake run !' An' fo' good- 
 ness she heurd me for she jes' collared dat hoss 
 an' went by 'im lak he wus hitched to de 
 gyardin palins. An' when I seed she hed beat 
 'im I jes' turned summersets all ober de groun' 
 an' walk on my ban's an' h'ist my feet under 
 dem common niggers' noses. An' ebery time I 
 turn er summerset an' kick my feet I sing : 
 
 Possum up de gum stump. 
 
 Fat hog in de waller — 
 Ole Mistis gin herself a hump 
 
 An' beat 'em all to holler ! 
 
 O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 
 
 Whar you gwine ? Whar you gwine ? 
 O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 
 
 You kno' you ain't ha'f tryin' ! 
 i8 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 *' An' den I riz an' turned ernudder summer- 
 set an' cracked my heels in de air, an' gin 'em 
 ernudder one 'kase I was so happy : 
 
 Jay-bird took de hoopin' coff, 
 
 Kildee took de measle, 
 Ole Mistis took de money off — 
 
 Pop goes de weasel ! 
 
 O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 
 
 Whar you gwine ? Whar you gwine ? 
 O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 
 
 You kno' you ain't ha'f tryin' ! 
 
 *' But when I riz de nex' time I liked ter drap in 
 my tracks! Dar stood ole Marster and 'er whole 
 crowd er gemmens lookin' at me an' laffin', an' 
 when he seed I seed 'im he cum tendin' like he 
 wus mighty mad, an' sez : ' You imp of a nigger ! 
 Whutyou cum outen dat stall fur ? I'm er good 
 min' ter flay you erlive !' An' I drapped on de 
 grass at his feet an' sed : ' Ole Marster, kill me — 
 beat me to def ! I kno' I desarves it, but I've 
 seed de bes' boss race in de wurl, an' Ole Mistis 
 has won it. Thang God ! I'm reddy to go !' An' 
 whut you reckon he dun, nigger ? Ole Marster ! 
 Right dar in dat crowd ! He jes ' pull out er ten 
 dollar gold piece, an' laf an' sed: *Heah, you 
 little rascal ! Ef dat mair hadn't heurd you er 
 hollerin' on de fence I don't b'leeve she'd eber 
 
 19 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 made dat spurt an' won de race.' An' de folks 
 all 'roun' sed de same thing. * Take dis money/ 
 he sed. ' Now, go an' help rub her off !' Fur er 
 fac' he did." 
 
 *' Jake-e-e ! Oh, Jake !" came a terrific voice 
 from the back porch. A glance by Brutus showed 
 that it emanated from the center of a dark, moon- 
 like object which appeared to be an eclipse, for a 
 deep circle of red bandanna — not unlike the rays 
 of the sun creeping over its edges — shone over 
 the northern hemisphere. Beneath this cropped 
 out a tuft of corded hair, not unlike the peaks of 
 a lunar mountain. The moon was evidently in 
 a state of activity, however, for from Brutus' 
 distance the terrific **Jake-e! Oh, Jake-el" which 
 continued to pour steadily forth seemed to come 
 out of a volcanic pit, situated near the southern 
 extremity of the satellite. The sphere seemed 
 poised on an object, which, from the barn door, 
 was not unlike a mountain weighing some three 
 hundred pounds and decked in a blue checked 
 homespun, girdled around the center with a string. 
 At the sound of the voice — for such it was, and it 
 came from Aunt Fereby, the cook — the small 
 braggart ceased his narration as suddenly as if he 
 had met the fate of Ananias. The fat person in 
 the porch became greatly excited. Shading her 
 eyes with a hand covered with biscuit dough, she 
 looked intently at the barn door, as if it were the 
 object of her wrath, and screamed : 
 
 20 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 ** Don't you heah me callin' you, yer raskill ?" 
 
 ** Unc* Brutus," said the small person, now 
 considerably rattled, '* is dat mammy callin' me ?" 
 
 "You kno' it is," said Brutus, as he went on 
 with his rubbing, while the virago still held her 
 hand over her eyes with a look of vengeance 
 there. 
 
 ** What am she doin' now ?" asked the tamer 
 of oxen, in the hallway ; ** eny thing 'cept hol- 
 lerin' ?" 
 
 ** She's gethered up her cloze to her knees," 
 said Brutus, as he glanced up, *' an' she's cum- 
 min' t'words de barn wid 'er brush-broom in her 
 ban's. You'd better git," he added significantly. 
 
 But Jakey needed not this admonition. He 
 had already departed at the rear door of the barn. 
 However, he called back: ** Unc' Brutus, don't 
 forgit ter soak de bandages in arnica water afore 
 you put 'em on Ole Mistis' legs. You kno' — " 
 
 "You git !" said Brutus, picking up a stout 
 cob. •* Git ! Does de ole rider like me want eny 
 tellin' from a kid of yore stripe?" But Jake had 
 already hurried out of the rear of the barn, in- 
 tending to keep on down the rock fence and turn 
 up suddenly in the kitchen with a bundle of 
 ' * sage-grass' ' in his arms, as evidence that he had 
 been on the errand on which he had been sent. 
 But these tactics must have, been played before, 
 for the party armed with the brush-broom darted 
 around the rear of the stable, instead of the front, 
 
 21 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 and immediately afterward the jockey rubbing 
 off the gray mare heard a painful collision, fol- 
 lowed by yells from Jakey, and the regular she- 
 wow, shewow, shewow of the switches as the 
 current was turned on. A few minutes afterward 
 the mountain and moon was seen hurriedly ad- 
 vancing back to the kitchen, holding her youthful 
 scion by the ear, while the boy half ran, half 
 jumped, with now and then a yank in the air 
 from his mother to help him along, and getting 
 the benefit of the after-clap — a tongue lashing. 
 "Dat's de way you am," she said as he went 
 along, " spendin' yore life, an' sp'ilin' yore 
 chances fur usefulness in dis wurl' an' heb'n in 
 de naixt, foolin' wid dat low jockey crowd down 
 dar at de barn, an' me wurryin' myself ter def 
 tryin' to raise you right." (A yank.) " Des' lak 
 de good book say: 'A thankles' chile am sharp- 
 er'n a suppent's tooth' — (yank ! yank !) — only 
 you ain't sharper 'tall — (a vigorous twist) — ain't 
 sharper nuff to hide in de hay loft when you heah 
 me callin' you 'stead er runnin' out dat back do' 
 when you dun dat trick three times befo' an' think 
 I ain't got sense nuff to kno' it ! (Yank, yank, 
 yank !) But I needn't 'spec' you to do nuffin 
 right — you sp'iled already. Dar ! set doun dar 
 in dat cornder," she said as she gave him a final 
 yank in the air and landed him in the kitchen 
 corner, "an' eat dat cracklin' bread I dun sabe 
 fur you while you doun dar at de stable ruinin' 
 
 22 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 yore immoral soul foolin' wid race horses. An' 
 what I sabe it fur you fur?" striking an attitude 
 and looking at him with convincing scorn. 
 **Whut fur, I say? Jes' to teach you a lesson 
 frum de Bible, to let you kno' it allerscumstrue. 
 Don't it say : * De way ob de transgressor am 
 hard'? You dun foun' dat out, ain't you? Wal, 
 it also says : * Blessed am dey dat moans fur dey 
 shall be cumfetted.' You dun hab you moanin', 
 now be cumfetted an' thank yore stars you got a 
 good mudder dat kno's how to 'terprit de scrip- 
 ters," and she flung herself in a chair and pro- 
 ceeded to cool off. 
 
 Jakey accepted the interpretation of the skillet 
 of crackling bread, and having dried his tears on 
 his sleeves, and felt of his ear to see that it was 
 still there, he fell to and proceeded to be comforted 
 with a zeal bordering on religious enthusiasm. 
 
 *' But, law!" began his mammy, after a pause, 
 ** I can't do nuffm wid him. I heurd ole Mars- 
 ter say de big race cum off soon an' he gwine 
 take you erlong es a muscat. Dat's de way it 
 am ; ' De wicked race to dar own destrucshun.' " 
 
 Jake stopped eating at once. *' Is dat so, 
 mammy?" with a look that showed how he stood 
 on the subject. 
 
 For answer the chair was vacated in an instant 
 and the brush-broom picked up. 
 
 *' Come, come, Fereby, you have whipped that 
 boy enough 1" 
 
 23 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 The cook dropped her switches and said apolo- 
 getically to her master — for it was Col. Dinwiddie 
 who was passing by and spoke — * * Jes' es you say, 
 Marster. I'm jes' try in' to raise 'im right. You 
 kno' what King Sollermon say: ' Spare de rod an' 
 spile de chile ' " — triumphantly. 
 
 '*Yes, but a greater one than Solomon has 
 said : ' Blessed are the merciful ; for they shall 
 obtain mercy.' Jake" — to the boy — "go un- 
 hitch my horse from the rack and take him to the 
 barn," and the Colonel went on in. 
 
 The boy went off with alarcity. " * Blessed am 
 de merciful,' he said to himself, * fur dey shall 
 obtain mercy.' Dat's de bes' religun I eber 
 heurd in my life. Ef all ob 'em had dat kind dar 
 wouldn't be a brush-broom or a mean temper in 
 de wurl," and he patted the horse on the nose 
 and mounted him. Darkey like, he put him 
 through all his gaits before he reached the barn. 
 
 II. 
 
 But although the sun shone so brightly on the 
 fertile fields and splendid mansion of Col. Din- 
 widdie, there was little of its sunshine in the heart 
 of its owner on that May day, fifty years ago. 
 With a paper in hand, near sunset, he sat out on 
 his front veranda, looking dreamily and moodily 
 ahead at a sloping wheat field across the pike. 
 How beautiful it looked ! How the recent rains 
 had brought it out, filling its golden meshes — 
 
 24 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 those chaff thatched granaries — with the product 
 of the sun and soil ! Near, the big poplars in his 
 own yard lifted their red and yellow wax blossoms 
 to heaven or showered them on the blue grass 
 carpet below, A hundred sweet fragrances filled 
 the evening air, a hundred homely sounds fell 
 on his ears. Among them, and dearer than all 
 others, was the occasional whinny of a stately 
 matron in the paddock beyond, disturbed for a 
 moment because her own suckling had strolled 
 off to caper and play mimic racing with some 
 other mare's degenerate offspring. 
 
 *' My faculties are peculiarly acute this even- 
 ing," said the master to himself, **or else I am 
 a rank coward, unable to stand misfortune. I 
 never saw the old place have such a charm be- 
 fore," he continued, half aloud. "I don't mind 
 giving it up so much on my own account, but 
 Anne"— 
 
 ** What ! father?" answered behind him, a 
 voice full of sweetness. ** Did you call me ?" 
 — and a beautiful girl stepped out from a bay 
 window and, laying her hands affectionately on 
 his shoulders, reached over and playfully kissed 
 him. 
 
 With their faces together, it would not require 
 a close observer to see the striking resemblance 
 between Anne Dinwiddle and her father. Left 
 motherless at an early age, Anne had found in 
 one parent all the love and affection usually 
 
 25 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 given by two. Nothing could exceed the 
 Colonel's tenderness and affection for his 
 daughter, and nothing Anne's pride, love and 
 admiration for her father. Perhaps her life with 
 a masculine mind had given a stronger turn to 
 her own, instead of the feminine cast and 
 romantic play that might have been expected 
 under other circumstances. Or, perhaps she in- 
 herited it from her father — a strong, firm man 
 himself — for the girl was as much known for her 
 practical sense and firmness as for her matchless 
 beauty. This evening, in her baby-waist gown 
 of white muslin, cut low-neck, and short sleeves, 
 her auburn hair gracefully coiled behind a shapely 
 head and tucked in with a large mother-of-pearl 
 comb, inlaid with gold, her face aglow with a 
 silent happiness which bespoke another love 
 within, the girl was divine, and her father drew 
 her to her old place on his knee — for though 
 nearly twenty she was to him the little tot of 
 two years — the same he wept over in her crib 
 the night after her mother was laid away forever, 
 and the first great grief of his life came to break 
 in on his ambition — the ambition **to breed the 
 best horse that ever lived on the best farm in 
 Tennessee." 
 
 The Colonel was a man that spoke to the 
 point, and of few words. In his daughter he 
 found a mind in which his own sought help and 
 advice. All his business was known to her. 
 
 26 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Even many of his breeding problems he had 
 tried to solve with her aid, and it was no little, 
 for she had pedigrees and records at her tongue's 
 end and knew the great horses of the past as 
 mariners did the stars. 
 
 **My child,'' said her father, bluntly, " I have 
 gambled once too often ; I am afraid I've ruined 
 us," and he looked away across the wheat 
 fields. 
 
 An expression of pain came over the girl's 
 strong face, but she said nothing. This one 
 question of gambling on horses was the only one 
 on which her father and herself had differed, and 
 the look she now wore showed that at last had 
 happened what she always feared would happen. 
 At length she asked : 
 
 ** How much is it ?" 
 
 " Forty thousand dollars " — his eyes still on 
 the distant fields. 
 
 **Can you pay it ?" in a tone which showed 
 she was more afraid of her father's honor suffer- 
 ing than of being left penniless herself. 
 
 ** Not unless I sell the horses — " 
 
 *' Then sell them," came the quick answer. 
 
 " And the farm," he continued. 
 
 '* Let it go, too." 
 
 **My child," said her father, as he rested his 
 eyes steadily on her face, *' of course I shall if it 
 comes to the worst, but — but — " and he caught 
 himself stammering like a school-boy, as he 
 
 27 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ^azed in the sweet, honest eyes of his daughter 
 — " Anne, there is another " — he stopped again, 
 with a look of positive annoyance on his clear- 
 cut face. The twilight shadows had fallen, the 
 lamps were lit in the hall, but still the father 
 broke not the silence. 
 
 *' Cur'pony ! Cur'pony ! Cur'pony !" came 
 from across the meadow, as the stable boy stood 
 in the pasture and called up the yearlings for 
 their evening meal. Around the corner of a 
 neat cabin a sprightly young negro was pick- 
 ing a banjo, accompanying the deep, rich notes of 
 the instrument with a voice in perfect attune — 
 '* Ahoo-a, an' er-who-ah — ahoo-a, an' er-who-ah 
 — ahoo — ahoo," sounded the voice on the still 
 evening air, and the echoing strings of the banjo 
 repeated — 'ahoo — ahoo !' 
 
 ** But what, father .?" at length asked the 
 daughter. 
 
 ** Why, my child," said the Colonel, awaken- 
 ing from his revery, " I intended telling you 
 before. I should have mentioned it, I am sure, 
 several days ago, only I did so hate to do it. 
 You know how it hurts me to give you up ! But 
 'tis your right and privilege to hear and my duty 
 to bear the message from Captain Sidney. A few 
 days ago he asked me for my permission to 
 approach you on a subject." 
 
 The girl sprang up, her face crimson, her eyes 
 ablaze. 
 
 28 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 **Your permission, father? He had better 
 get from me some token of at least a partial 
 consent for him to approach you on such a 
 subject ! Permission, indeed ! Father, I hate 
 the man !" 
 
 *'My, my, my!'* said her father, half laugh- 
 ing, half astounded, "but I never saw you so 
 stirred up, my darling ! Why, Sidney has been 
 here every two or three weeks for a dozen years, 
 is twice your age, and has actually seen you 
 grow up and has never made any secret of wait- 
 ing for you. Rich, handsome, jovial and actually 
 worships you ! I thought you two were fine 
 friends/' 
 
 ** Father ! Father !" exclaimed the girl, ** you 
 do not know me ! As your guest and friend I en- 
 dured Captain Sidney, and treated him courte- 
 ously. But do you think a girl has no heart, no 
 ears, no eyes ? I have disdained from maiden 
 modesty to tell you before what your one question 
 demands of me now. Would you have your 
 daughter wed a man whose excesses have even 
 reached the ears of as unworldly a maid as I ? 
 Am I to be won by a man merely because he is 
 your friend and is ' rich, handsome, jovial and 
 worships me,' as you say ? I do not love him — 
 that is enough ! Oh, father !" she said with 
 sudden impulse, as she seated herself in his lap 
 and took his face in both her hands and laid her 
 face against his, *'did not my dear mother love 
 
 29 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 you ? You know what I mean — how I mean !" 
 and tears rolled down from her brown eyes. 
 
 "By the eternal, you are right!" said the 
 Colonel, as he arose hastily, with a trace of 
 emotion in his own voice, "I hadn't thought 
 of that ! The scamp !" he repeated half aloud. 
 *' I like him myself, but what am I.? Only a 
 gambler ! He is another — a gentleman — yes, a 
 gentleman— but a gambler for all that 1 And 
 his excesses in other directions — whew ! Anne !" 
 he called, as he kissed her and started into his 
 room, "you are right — always right — always 
 right. I hadn't thought of that," and the door 
 closed on his form, a trifle bent, Anne thought, 
 as she sank in a chair and wept from sympathy 
 for her father. 
 
 But there never was a girl like Anne Din- 
 widdle. Tears did not stay with her long. She 
 dismissed the Captain with a contemptuous sniff 
 as she vigorously wiped her red nose and eyes, 
 and then she fell to thinking with her practical 
 little mind to find a way to help her father. 
 Throwing an opera shawl over her head and 
 rounded shoulders — for the air was chilly — she 
 sat silently rocking and looking up at the stars. 
 Presently the big gate at the pike shut with a 
 bang and a few moments later the rhythmical 
 feet of a saddle horse played a tune as they 
 pattered up the gravel walk. On came the 
 horseman till the animal reached the portico 
 
 30 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 where sat the silent figure in white, when he 
 shied suddenly to the left. The ease with which 
 the rider retained his seat showed he was accus- 
 tomed to such antics from his horse, and the 
 dexterity with which he pressed a l<nee in the 
 animal's chest and whirled it about face with a 
 twist of a firm hand made the girl's eyes sparkle 
 with excitement. In a moment the rider had 
 bounded over the railing with : 
 
 " Hello ! Anne, is that the way you frighten 
 off your beaux ? Sit out here in the dim light 
 with just enough white about your head to 
 frighten their horses to death, and have them 
 plunging all about over your white pink and for- 
 get-me-not beds ?" 
 
 *' Jim ! Jim ! How could you .?" laughed the 
 girl, as she arose and shook his hand. " Didn't 
 I tell you you should not come over to-night ? 
 As Uncle Jack, the carriage driver would say, 
 you are a positive ' nuessence.' " 
 
 "O, Anne," he said, with boyish enthusiasm, 
 as he drew a chair up close to hers, *' I just 
 couldn't stay away. I have thought of you all 
 day. 'Jim Wetherall,' said the old gentleman 
 when he came into the lower field, where I was 
 looking after the hands plowing and let them all 
 go down to the spring for water and waste an 
 hour idling just because I was thinking of you, 
 * Jim Wetherall, if you ain't in love you are just 
 a lunatic, and that's all. Why the mischief don't 
 
 31 
 
Scngrs and Stories 
 
 'o 
 
 you look after your business ? And is this the 
 way you let them run corn rows over a hillside, 
 with such a fall as to make a gully the first hard 
 rain that comes ?' 
 
 ** After supper I saddled Troup, and thinks I, 
 * I'll just ride over and look at the light in her 
 window.' But may you never speak to me again 
 if the rascal Troup didn't turn in the gate before 
 1 knew it, and here I am. And, oh, Anne, if you 
 only knew how I love you — " 
 
 But Jim's mouth was stopped with a hand over 
 it — which he proceeded to kiss, to the fair owner's 
 chagrin, for she immediately withdrew it and 
 gave the kisser a rap on the head with the other 
 one. 
 
 ** Jim ! Jim I Don't be a goose," she said. 
 ** You don't know how sad and worried I am to- 
 night," and she proceeded to tell him all her 
 father's troubles. 
 
 Jim and Anne had been playmates from early 
 youth. The boy, though really a man now, had 
 never concealed anything from her — not even the 
 fact that he always had and always would love 
 her. Anne had laughed at him in her sisterly 
 way; had helped him in his studies as he grew 
 up — for she had many advantages over Jim, whose 
 father was an honest and well-to-do farmer. The 
 boy, under her influence, had even gone to college 
 and managed to graduate, but was noted more 
 for his hard horse sense, as they called it, and 
 
 32 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 his frank honesty, than for any great leaning 
 toward the classics or any diplomatic erudition. 
 **The only classic I want," he said to Anne, after 
 he came back home, ** is you. When I think of 
 you, Anne," he cried, *M see all the goddesses 
 and nymphs and queens of old. You seem to me 
 like one of those Grecian temples I read of, with 
 pillars so stately and everything so perfect. You 
 seem to belong to another age, so different from 
 mine — so far away, and sweet and dreamy, and 
 high above me, and for which my soul yearns. 
 Oh, Anne, can't you love me ?" 
 
 And Anne would laugh and tell him, ** Maybe, 
 Jim, some day." And the big fellow would be 
 satisfied and glad to be allowed to see her now 
 and then and bide his time. 
 
 ** Forty thousand dollars is a big sum to owe," 
 said the now thoughtful Jim, when Anne had told 
 him all — and Jim knew by the way she spoke 
 that she was silently weeping. Then she said 
 softly : 
 
 ** Jim, who could have taken such an advan- 
 tage of father ? Perhaps it was fair as far as 
 gambling goes, Jim, but you know how honor- 
 able and fair father is, and — and — I've heard 
 those kind always lose in the end, you know, 
 Jim." 
 
 Jim was silent. **Must I really tell you, 
 Anne .?" he said at length. ** Well, it is Captain 
 Sidney." 
 
 3 33 
 
Songs and Stories* 
 
 **Oh, Jim !" said Anne, in astonishment, *' how 
 did you know ?" 
 
 ** Never mind," he said, quietly. *Mt would 
 not be altogether manly for me to tell you, Anne, 
 but I know it for a certainty; besides, I've an idea 
 in my head that may help us." 
 
 **Oh, Jim ! do, do help us — dear Jim," she said 
 impulsively ; " you are clever and know so much 
 that is practical, and are so honest and kind and 
 true. Oh, Jim, if you can help us I will never 
 forget—" 
 
 "Anne!" he said, catching her hand, "God 
 knows I would die for you or the Colonel, either. 
 He's been the kindest, best friend I ever had. 
 He's a gentleman — every inch of him — and you, 
 oh, Anne, I would die if you were out of my 
 life ! But," he said, suddenly checking himself, 
 "please forgive me — this is no time for that. 
 What a goose I am !" After a pause : " Anne, 
 I'm going now. My head is too full of a plan I 
 have to talk any longer. A calamity such as 
 you have mentioned would simply wreck your 
 and the Colonel's life — and mine, too," he added, 
 slowly, "if yours was. We all have a chance 
 some time in life to show what we're made of," 
 he continued, " and now is my time. And I am 
 going in, heart and soul. I'll show you I'm no 
 feather-bed friend, but one who can love in 
 prosperity and love harder in adversity. I don't 
 know what I can do — but, Anne, I'll try, for 
 
 34 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 your and the Coloners sake — even if you marry 
 another. Don't cry " — for Anne was crying 
 softly — **but good night. You will hear from me 
 again," and the brave fellow was in the saddle. 
 
 "Jim?" 
 
 The horse was spurred up close under the 
 balcony. 
 
 "Jim?" 
 
 And the golden head bent over the railing till 
 the red lips touched his ear, and the smell of her 
 perfumed hair seemed to the bewildered Jim like 
 the glory of the fragrant locks of all the god- 
 desses of ancient Greece. 
 
 " Jim, dear Jim ! I — I — think — I — love — you 
 — now. Good night!" And she was gone, 
 while Jim sat in mute silence and inexpressible 
 happiness, looking up in the eyes of two stars 
 that twinkled above where her own had just 
 been. And looking, Jim wondered whether he 
 was really alive on horseback, or was only a spirit 
 of joy winging its way to the two stars which 
 shone above him in the place of Anne's eyes. 
 
 A moment later Troup, his saddle horse, became 
 convinced there was no spirit there, for he felt a 
 vigorous thrust from anything but a spiritual foot 
 in his side, and he bounded away in a gallop. 
 
 III. 
 
 For several days Anne was in a state of quiet 
 happiness. She did not see Jim for a week — ^she 
 
 35 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 did not want to. She did not know what was 
 going to happen, but she felt as if something was, 
 and that all was safe. She sang around the 
 house like a bird. It all flashed over her one day 
 when her father said at the tea table : 
 
 ** That boy Jim Wetherall is a trump. He has 
 got more horse sense in a minute than I have in 
 a year !" Anne looked up in astonishment. The 
 Colonel continued: "You know Ole Mistis is 
 entered in the Cumberland Futurity, worth 
 ^50,000 to the winner. I have never regarded 
 her as a promising candidate, and of late she has 
 been going so badly in her work under the new 
 jockey that I had abandoned the idea of paying 
 the final entrance fee. But Jim — you know how 
 interested he has always been in the horses, 
 Anne ! — (but Anne was busy with her teacup, 
 while her cheeks were scarlet) — seems to be 
 rrfore so of late, and has been over every day. He 
 soon convinced me the mare was shod wrong and 
 that the boy Brutus knew nothing about his busi- 
 ness. *Why, Colonel,' he said, in his blunt 
 way, *he shouldn't ride a speckled steer to water 
 for me ; the mare is fast, very fast — he doesn't 
 understand her.' And what do you reckon ?" 
 Anne could not imagine ! '' Why, he is actually 
 working her himself, with Jake as a rider, and I 
 never saw such improvement, Anne," he said, as 
 he came around to her chair. " If I could only 
 win that stake it would be the happiest day of my 
 
 36 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 life. Never more would I race a horse — never 
 again would I gamble. I feel almost upset of 
 late. I am weak and peevish, vacillating and 
 unnerved. Last night," he said, slowly, and 
 with more seriousness than was his custom, **I 
 dreamed of your dear mother, child, and her 
 sweet, dark eyes seemed full of pity and sorrow," 
 and Colonel Dinwiddle walked slowly over to the 
 portrait which hung on the wall and stood looking 
 at it in silent admiration, while his daughter 
 came up and put her arms around him with, 
 "Never mind, father; don't be worried. Just 
 let Jim take charge — he is clever and honest, 
 and will surprise you yet." 
 
 The morning of the greatest race ever run on 
 Tennessee soil came. The city was crowded 
 with visitors ; excitement was at fever heat. 
 
 "We haven't a chance in the world, Anne," 
 said Col. Dinwiddle to his daughter, as she sat in 
 the grand stand, dazed and confused with the 
 mighty crowd around her and a terrible weight 
 on her heart. " It is not so bad as that, Anne," 
 said Jim, who had come up to whisper a few 
 words of encouragement before the horses start- 
 ed ; "there is always a chance in a horse race. 
 The best one may break his leg within ten feet 
 of the wire. So don't be altogether wretched," 
 and he went off to look after the mare. 
 
 Two o'clock ! The crowd was immense. 
 Never before was assembled such a galaxy of 
 
 37 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 beauty and gallantry in the Volunteer state. The 
 riders were weighed, horses handicapped and all 
 sent up the stretch. 
 
 Jake was delighted when told he was to ride 
 Ole Mistis. He was ignorant of the fact that tht 
 mare was thought to be in no fix to win and that 
 the betting was lO to i against her. 
 
 ** All enybody's got ter do," he said to him- 
 self, *'is to set on her an' guide 'er. I'd like to 
 see 'em beat Ole Mistis !" 
 
 But when his master came to him in the stretch 
 to give him instructions even the little darkey 
 saw something was wrong. He had never seen 
 the Colonel look that way before. His eyes 
 were stern, but expressionless ; his voice husky 
 with emotion, and the quick spirit of command 
 seemed to have given way to the evil genius of 
 despair. Quiet and commanding as ever, but 
 Jake saw he was in no mood to be crossed, and 
 all but guessed his master had made up his mind 
 for defeat and ruin. 
 
 'Make!" 
 
 **Yes, Marster," said Jake. 
 
 *' Listen to what I tell you, and do as I tell 
 you. Do you see that bay horse there ?" 
 
 "Yes, Marster," and Jake cast his keen eyes 
 contemptuously on the bay. 
 
 *' Well, Jake, they say he is going to beat my 
 mare. If he does" — he clutched Jake's arm 
 tightly, so tight the boy winced, and his master's 
 
 33 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 voice sunk to a whisper as he said — ** If he does, 
 Jake, I am ruined, ruined !" — and the boy almost 
 quailed before the stern expression that gleamed 
 from his master's eyes. Then he resumed : 
 '* Now listen : the bay will set the pace, but do 
 you keep up with him — easy as you can, but up 
 to him — stay with him. It's four miles, and a 
 death struggle ; but the mare can go the route. 
 When you come in the stretch at the last mile, 
 take this rawhide " — drawing a keen whip — 
 — ** and whip her from the last eighth home. It s 
 your only chance, and not much at that. Do 
 you hear me ?" for Jake gazed at him in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 **Marster," — slowly — ** you sho'ly don't 'spec* 
 meter whip Ole Mistis wid dis ?" — apologetically. 
 
 ** Expect you ?" thundered the Colonel. **Did 
 you hear what I said } Do as I tell you or I'll 
 have the overseer flay you alive after this race. 
 Do you hear, now }'* 
 
 **Yes, Marster," said Jake, as he took the 
 whip and turned the mare into line. But to him- 
 self he said : 
 
 ** Whut ! Me beat Ole Mistis wid dis thing ? 
 Ole Mistis — my Ole Mistis .? I'll take it myself 
 fust! Sho'Iy Marster ain't at hissef " — and he 
 looked around to see where the bay horse, 
 Loraine, was. At that moment Jim Wetherall 
 came up. 
 
 ** Jake," he said, **what did the Colonel tell 
 
 39 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 you ?'* Jake told him. ** That's all right; now 
 listen to me. Do you see that path of firm clay 
 there in the center of the track ? Well, it runs 
 from the last eighth to the wire. I worked all the 
 morning with ten teams to put it there. The 
 track is too soft for the mare, Jake; and, besides, 
 you know how she is. She's foolish about things 
 at the old home, ain't she, Jake .?" 
 
 ** Dat she is, Marse Jim." 
 
 *'And we've run her on the clay path in the 
 orchard for weeks, haven't we, Jake ? Well, 
 now, boy, what we want to do is to make the old 
 mare feel at home. When you come round the 
 last time throw her on this path — the footing is 
 good — cut her loose, and I don't believe any of 
 them can head you !" 
 
 Jake nodded. "And don't forget this," he 
 said : *' I've got a thousand dollars in my pocket 
 to buy you if you win this race, and, on the word 
 of Jim Wetherall, I'll set you free. Do you 
 understand me, Jake ?" 
 
 The negro's eyes fell. ** I'll win it enyway, 
 ef I can, Marse Jim. Whut I wanter be free fur 
 — whut'd I do erway frum. ole Marster an' Ole 
 Mistis .?" And Jake waited for the word. 
 
 But all were not ready, and the longer they 
 waited the more intense became the boy's anxiety. 
 Left to himself in a crowd of rough jockeys, who 
 did what they could to frighten the mare and 
 annoy the boy, it was almost pathetic to see him 
 
 40 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 reach over and stroke the great mare's neck and 
 say to her: **Doncher be afeerd, Ole Mistis — 
 dis am Jake — little Jake/' and then he would 
 add, softly and tenderly, ** He ain't gwineter hit: 
 you — my Ole Mistis — my Ole Mistis." 
 
 And what a wonderful change came over the 
 mare ! Not to-day, as she had been on former 
 occasions, was she nervous and unruly, whirling 
 round and round, endeavoring to break away, 
 or refusing to line up. Her entire nature seemed 
 changed — Jake's presence was magical. She stood 
 perfectly still, quiet and apparently indifferent — 
 and only in her quick, glancing eye and the almost 
 imperceptible play of her ears could a close 
 observer have seen the great struggle going on 
 within her — a struggle to control the frantic desire 
 for wild flight — a desire inherited from an hundred 
 ancestors — now fighting for possession of her na- 
 ture. It was a grand example, even in a brute, 
 of will conquering passion, of dumb intelligence 
 controlling brute force, of a small ray of human 
 reason, playing like an electric spark through 
 clouds of tumultuous darkness and waiting for the 
 explosion that would make the thunderbolt ! 
 
 The starter is talking — Jake knows not what, 
 but he gathers the reins tighter. The flag drops ;. 
 the ball of living, flying flesh is shot ; a roar an- 
 swers back from the grand stand which says^ 
 ** They're off ! They're off !" 
 
 Jake had great confidence in his master's judg- 
 
 41 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ment. Ignoring every other horse, he kept his 
 small, black eyes on the big, galloping bay, and 
 his swaggering, insolent rider. Unused to the 
 crowd and the flying speed, the sensation of riding 
 so fast, for the first quarter, was almost painful 
 to Jake — he appeared to himself to be flying in 
 the air, tied to a projectile. The roar of the wind 
 in his ears hurt them ; he dodged instinctively, 
 and with a silent prayer placed his mount by the 
 side of the bay and held her in. The rider of 
 Loraine was an old jockey and knew as well as 
 the gamblers what horse he had to beat, as well 
 as the invincible prowess of his own horse — there 
 was nothing there could beat him I 
 
 " Don't ride so fast, little nig," he shouted to 
 Jake in derision. '' Gib de rest of us a showin'; 
 weVe got fo' miles to go; don't pump us out de 
 fust mile." 
 
 But this disturbed not Jake. If a negro has one 
 quality overtopping all others it is his infinite 
 patience. And Jake was a true type of his race. 
 He said nothing, but no snake in the swamp 
 had a quicker eye, or knew better when to 
 strike. 
 
 As the Colonel had said, Loraine had set the 
 
 pace, and it was hot enough. "But look, 
 
 Anne," he said, ''how the mare goes to his 
 
 girth and stays there ! See with what a bold 
 
 and assuring stride she flies along — easy, graceful, 
 
 unconcerned. I never saw her run so ! Great 
 
 God ! if she will only win !" And Anne, when 
 
 42 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 she saw the gallant fight, cried softly to herself 
 and sent up a silent prayer. 
 
 '* Cum on little woolly-head," said Loraine's 
 rider, as they passed the first mile, ** dis am 
 gwinter be er hoss-race. I'm jes' playin' wid 
 you now to get your wind — by an' by I'll leave 
 you an' de ole mare in de home-stretch to pick 
 grass." But the satyr imp said never a word, 
 and the gray mare, as she pulled anon on the bit, 
 told even her inexperienced rider that she had a 
 reserve supply of speed. But how much ? And 
 did the bay have more ? 
 
 On they went ! Two miles ! Jake knew it 
 by a second roar from the stand as they passed. 
 He tried to look forward but the wind cut his 
 eyes ; he recognized only a black mass of shout- 
 ing humanity. Loraine's rider still rode uncon- 
 cerned and indifferent. Jake dreaded the mo- 
 ment when he would act, when he'd send the 
 bay for the death struggle. The boy's heart beat 
 Jike a drum, his breath came in gasps, his throat 
 was dry ! "Cum on little nig," — he heard no 
 more, for the bay was pulling away, and the 
 rushing air was an organ hurricane playing a 
 thousand tunes in his ear. The sunshine flashed 
 a thousand kaleidoscopic colors before his eyes ! 
 He seemed to be flying, but whether backward 
 or forward he knew not. " Cum on little " — but 
 he barely caught the sound, so far away did 
 Loraine's rider appear to be. Another roar 1 
 
 43 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Three miles ! The track was a small white line 
 stretched in the air. Jake heard the shouts of 
 / the riders behind him, the slashing of many 
 whips as the keen instruments of torture fell on 
 straining flanks. His own mare scudded before 
 the field of noise behind her as a sea-bird before 
 the hurricane's roar, and yet she seemed to get 
 no nearer the demon bay that flew fearlessly 
 along. She pulled on her bit I Instinct seemed 
 to tell her she must go now or never. *' Not yit, 
 Ole Mistis, not yit !" said her ashen-faced rider, 
 as he bent to her stride and patted her sweat- 
 covered neck. At the last half I It seemed to 
 Jake they had gone a day's journey — that time 
 had stopped and eternity had begun since he shot 
 away on that frenzied ride. How many long 
 miles yet lay between him, it seemed, and where 
 Miss Anne sat, pale and statue-like, in the blurred 
 bank of humanity under the grand stand ! The 
 last quarter I Jake raised in his stirrups. " Now, 
 Ole Mistis, go T* he fairly shouted, as he gave her 
 full head for the first time. The mare responded 
 with a gallant leap — another and another — but 
 no nearer did she come to the bay. Loraine had 
 been turned loose, too, and increased the distance^ 
 between them with demoniacal swiftness ! Like 
 a death-stab the thought went through Jake's 
 mind for the first time that he could not win. 
 The tears gushed to his eyes, the blood seemed 
 to congeal in his very heart ; he clutched the 
 
 44 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 saddle to retain his seat. Loraine was just 
 ahead ; they were now at the last eighth. Fren- 
 zied — frantic — blinded — bewildered, Jake knew 
 not what he did. In despair he raised his whip, 
 it flashed a-moment in the sunlight, then went 
 whistling across the track. He had thrown it 
 away ! But look ! Loraine now fairly flew I 
 He seemed to know the time had come. His own 
 mare? She was falling back. He knew it, he 
 felt it — he was beaten ! Overcome with grief 
 and shame, he forgot all about Loraine. He 
 thought only of the old home, of his love for his 
 master, of Miss Anne, of his idolatrous worship 
 of the mare, mingled with the fact that he had 
 ruined them all. A clay path flashed under the 
 mare's nose, and then he thought of Jim Weth- 
 erall's words — of his promised freedom. Crazed 
 with fear and shame, he guided the mare in the 
 path, Tet out all his rein, and flung himself for- 
 ward on her neck, clinging to her mane like an 
 imp on a flying cloud. Thrusting two brown 
 heels into her flanks, he burst out crying, and in 
 tones that moved even the victorious rider of 
 Loraine, he sobbed : " Ole Mistis ! Ole Mistis i 
 Dis am Jake — little Jake ! Go home, Ole Mistis I 
 Go home, Ole Mistis !! Go home !!!*' 
 
 To the surprise of the spectators, who now 
 looked on the victory of Loraine as complete, the 
 mare answered this pathetic call with a burst of 
 speed unheard of on the track even to this day. 
 
 45 
 
V 
 
 Songs and Stories 
 
 A thousand demons of determination blazed in 
 her eyes. One — two — three leaps she made, like 
 a startled doe at the death bleat of her fawn, and 
 in a twinkling she had cleared the distance be- 
 tween herself and the bay. The crowd roared 
 in a tumult of excitement — men climbed on one 
 another's shoulders — the gray mare came like a 
 rocket ! Loraine's driver, startled and now thor- 
 oughly in earnest, went to his whip. It flashed a 
 moment in the air and fell with stinging emphasis 
 on the bay's shoulders ! The animal swerved — 
 that blow was his ruin, for the gallant bay, never 
 before having felt a blow, swerved slightly to. 
 [avoid it. Only a yard or two — but yards arej 
 imiles when seconds are hurricanes ! Only a 
 moment of indecision — but indecision is mutiny 
 when stakes are kingdoms 1 Like a swallow be- 
 fore the blast, the gray mare thrust her long neck 
 under the wire — and the race was won ! 
 
 A moment later the crowd of shouting, frenzied 
 people ceased shouting to a man, when the fleet 
 animal, having no one to guide her, turned so 
 suddenly into the drawgate that opened on the 
 infield as to hurl Jake off, and left him mangled 
 on the track. Later they stood, a surging crowd, 
 around a beautiful girl seated on the ground and 
 holding a bruised and bleeding face in her lap, 
 upon which her own tears fell. The boy opened 
 his eyes and half unconsciously began to mur- 
 mur : '* 'Most home, Ole Mistis ! 'Most home, Ole 
 
 46 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Mistis ! *Most home!" Presently a ray of con- 
 sciousness came back to his lusterless orbs, as 
 he recognized his young mistress and exclaimed : 
 " Oh, Miss Anne, did we win ?" and interpreting 
 correctly the half joyous smile that, despite her 
 tears, shone round her mouth at thought of their 
 victory, he closed his eyes and said : ** Thang 
 God, an' I didn't tech 'er a lick. Tell Marster 
 Tm sorry — but — I — couldn't — hit — 'er !" For a 
 moment he was silent and then his lips moved 
 again — feebly, for the life spark was nearly 
 gone : " * Blessed — am — de — merciful — fur — dey 
 — shall — obtain mercy' " — and the little slave 
 was free forever. , 
 
 47 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 MISS KITTY'S FUiN'RAL. 
 
 o 
 
 HEAH de banjo ringin', 
 O heah de tamboreen, 
 O heah de darkies singin', 
 Susanna am my queen. 
 O cum, my lub ; O cum, my lub, wid me ; 
 We'll dance an' sing down by de 'simmon tree ; 
 O heah de banjo ringin', 
 O heah de tamboreen ; 
 O heah de darkies singin ', 
 Susanna am my queen. 
 
 A song in type is as unsatisfactory as one of 
 Nature's pastels on pasteboard, and the simple 
 negro melody above sounds nothing like the 
 vibrating notes that floated, not long ago, into my 
 window, fresh from the echoing strings of a 
 banjo. I could not resist it, and on going out I 
 found Old Wash, as everybody calls the old 
 darkey, under the elm that shaded his cabin door. 
 The moonbeams glittered askance, flecking the 
 earth with silvered blossoms and changing each 
 
 48 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 flooded leaf into a night-blooming flower. The 
 distant notes of a tree-frog came from the forest 
 beyond, while the regular cadences of a whip- 
 poorwill added just the tinge of weirdness neces- 
 sary to form the background of a banjo song. In 
 darkey language, the old man was **makin' de 
 banjo hum,'* and for melody and sweetness, in 
 the hands of a master, there is no instrument 
 more weirdly musical. 
 
 To-night Old Wash was beside himself. The 
 brass thimble on his **pickin* finger " flashed in 
 the moonlight; his foot patted in unison, and 
 fluttered like a black bat trying to leave the 
 earth. Even his body kept time and swayed to 
 and fro with the music. I listened in silent de- 
 light. The tune I had heard before, but not the 
 words, for he was improvising as he played. 
 
 De little stars am winkin', 
 
 Dey 'bout ter go ter sleep ; 
 De pale moon now am sinkin', 
 
 An' daylight shadders creep. 
 O cum, my lub, we'll dance Ferginny reel ; 
 De sun am up an' shinin'; now fur de cotton fiel'. 
 O heah de banjo ringin', 
 
 O heah de tamboreen ; 
 O heah de darkies singin', 
 
 Susanna am my queen. 
 
 "Go on, old man," I said: ''Give me that 
 4 49 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 song again. You almost make me feel like going 
 courting again. What's the matter with you ? 
 Thinking about starting all over in life .?" 
 
 **No, sah ; 'taint dat, sah," laughed the old 
 man, *' 'taint dat. Deys too much moss on de 
 ole tree fur de leaves ter cum ergin. De sap 
 can't rise when de bark am dead. De leabes fall 
 off when de cotton boll open. Didn't you nurver 
 think erbout it?" he added after a moment's 
 thought, " de soul don't nurver gro' ole ef it's 
 libbed right. De head gits white an' de lim's 
 weak an* de eyes dim, but de soul gits younger 
 es it grows older, de ole man gits mo' lak er boy 
 es he goes down de hill. Nachur kinder seems 
 to ease us off de stage ob life gently, lak she fotch 
 us in. In our ole age we gits young ergin an' 
 childish an' happy. We eben try ter kick up 
 our heels ergin an' be funny an' 'magine we 
 gwinter lib er long, long time yit. Sho' me de 
 ole man — don't keer how ole he am — dat don't 
 spec* ter lib at least ten yeahs longer. Dat's 
 nachur's way ob foolin' us, sah ; dat's her way 
 ob puttin' her babies ter sleep — de las' long sleep. 
 Puttin' 'em ter sleep contented lak, an' happy, 
 thinkin' dey'll wake in the mornin' an' be young 
 ergin." 
 
 *'\ tell you, sah, ole Marster's mighty good to 
 us. He could er put us heah widout hope, ef he 
 had wanted to ; he could er put us heah widout 
 sweet dreams, widout vishuns ob er better wurl, 
 
 50 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 widout dat onpurchasabul feelin' dat cums to us 
 when we knows we dun right — widout eben de 
 blessed Book. But he didn't. An' so we dream 
 on to de last an' hope to de last, an' b'leeve we 
 gwinter be better an' stronger to-morreran' cling 
 to de Good Book fur de sweetes' promis' ob dem 
 all — de promis' dat we'll lib ergin. 
 
 '* No, sah," he continued, as he threw off his 
 solemn tone and brightened up a bit, *' no, sah, 
 sho' es you lib right you'll git younger es you 
 gro' older. Why, sah, de oldes' man or woman 
 in de wurl am de middle-aiged, chillun-raisin', 
 money-makin', bizness-wurryin', ain't-got-no- 
 time to-eat, folks. Dey am de ole ones, far older 
 den de gray haids lak me dat dun laid erside all 
 dese heah trashy things an' got to romatin' ergin. 
 
 ** Why, whut you reckon I wus thinkin' erbout 
 to-night?" asked the old man as he looked 
 sheepishly around at the doorway, in which sat 
 Aunt Dinah, his wife. This dusky lady had been 
 listening apparently unconcerned at the old man's 
 narration, but filling the still night air with 
 fragrant breath of ** deer tongue and Williamson 
 leaf" as the smoke curled up from her newly 
 made cob-pipe. 
 
 ** Thinkin' about marrying again ?" I asked, as 
 I glanced suspiciously at Aunt Dinah, and then I 
 watched her shuffle her feet disdainfully as she 
 stopped smoking long enough to remark lacon- 
 ically : *' Jes' let 'im go on, young Marster — let 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Mm superseed," she said as she followed her 
 usual custom of throwing in some big word sound- 
 ing something like the one she was trying to use. 
 "Let Mm superseed. He has dese fits ebry now 
 an' den an' de bes' way ter stop 'im am to let 'im 
 run down lak you hafter do dese heah old-fash- 
 uned clocks. Whut er indellibul wurkin' appler- 
 atus he'd be," she said ironically, " ef he wus 
 only es game in der tater patch as he am in de 
 moonlight." 
 
 The old nmn glanced sorrowfully at the door- 
 way and continued: " Ternight I jes' gotter 
 thinkin' erbout my young Mistis, Miss Kitty, de 
 younges' dorter ob Marse Robert Young ; de 
 chile ob his old aige by his secon' wife, de prooty 
 leetle Yankee guv'ness dat cum down from Bos- 
 ting. She cum down ter teach ole Marster's 
 yudder gals, but she got ter lubbin' her skolers 
 so she married dey daddy so she cud be a mammy 
 to 'em. Ain't it strange how wimmen folks will 
 git up enny kinder excuse to marry on ? Why, 
 Tve knowed 'em ter marry fur indergestion an' 
 dat tired feelin'," laughed the old darkey, as he 
 winked at me and then glanced at the cabin door. 
 
 ** Wal, she made 'em er good mudder an' ole 
 Marster er good wife ef she did lub cod-fish balls 
 an' baked beans. An' her dorter, xMiss Kitty ! 
 Why man erlive, dat Yankee cross on our Sud- 
 dern stock jes' got up de prooties' gal dat eber 
 said * Yas ' to young lub. She had all de brains 
 
 52 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 an' intellec' ob her mammy's side wid all de 
 grace an' beauty an' high breedin' an' lily-com- 
 plecshun ob us Youngus. Her mammy was 
 allers dead in fur edercashun, an' so ole Marster 
 saunt an' got 'er three guv'nesses ; one fur eder- 
 cashun, one fur musicashun, an' one fur dress- 
 ercashun ; an' my ! how she did shine when she 
 growed up ! She was de prooties' gal dat eber 
 trod blue grass, de queenlies' one dat eber 
 gethered up her trail, an' de sweetes' one dat 
 eber pulled er rose in er golden bower whar de 
 hunnysuckers gethers de dew-draps an' de turkey 
 dove sings in de moonlight. I wus de kerridge 
 driver an' kep' de horses, an' es I useter drive 
 her about an' see her wid all her grace an' beauty 
 git in an' out de kerridge, I tell you I wus thank- 
 ful it wus me dat had charge ob her an' not my 
 ancestors in Affercur — fur dey would hab et 'er 
 up, thinkin' she wus sum kinder plumidged bird 
 ob de golden pheasant tribe. 
 
 " Endurin' her sebenteenth yeah, Marse Rob- 
 ert's half-brother died in Alerbama an' lef Marse 
 Robert gyardeen fur his son, Henry Robert Little- 
 ton, an' he soon cum out to Tennessee 'kose he 
 had no close kin libin', an' Marse Robert wanted 
 to raise 'im, though he was nineteen dat fall. An' 
 he wus er fine young man, sah; es gentle es er gal 
 an' es nervy es a red-bird in de settin' time. Ef 
 by accerdent he got in de wrong, he'd mighty nigh 
 Stan' ennythin' to git right ergin ; but onc't in de 
 
 53 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 right he'd fight fur er eye-lash. Why, I onc't 
 seed 'im 'pollergize to de oberseer, who wus allers 
 oberbearin' an' cussin', 'stead ob actin'. Jes' 
 think ob it ! 'pollergize to de oberseer ! 'kose he 
 happen hot to know de oberseer's orders one day 
 an' saunt one ob de ban's on ernudder erran'. 
 T'would er made no diff' rence ef he hadn't 'poll- 
 ergized fur it, but common trash can't stan' quality 
 an* allers mistakes gentleness fur lak ob grit, an' 
 Marse Henry's humbleness made de po' white 
 trash uppish an' he snapped out dat he didn't 
 spec no better raisin' from er boy dat had cum 
 frum sech er cracker state es Alerbama — hoo — 
 hoo — e! — dat's es fur es he got — Marse Henry 
 knocked 'im down three times befo' he cud git 
 up onc't. 
 
 ** Bringin' two sech nachurs togedder under de 
 same roof am mighty nigh de same thing es mix- 
 in' shampain an' red lips, an' I seed de thing wus 
 fixed up betwixt 'em befo' ole Marster caught on 
 an' saunt de boy, as he called 'im, to Ferginny 
 to finish his aigucashun. But dat didn't do no 
 good ; ennybody dat had eber seed Miss Kitty 
 en' cud ferget 'er ain't de kinder folks de gods 
 lub ter kill young, an' arter he ben dar fo' yeahs 
 an' finish his aigucashun heah he cum back to 
 Tennessee ergin. ' Yore haid's lebel, Marse 
 Henry,' sez I to myself; ' de right kinder man 
 don't fall in lub but onc't an' den he strikes de 
 pyore metal or de wuss pocket ob flint dat eber 
 
 54 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 turned er pick ! An' in yore case ef you ain't 
 struck de pyore metal I'm black !' 
 
 ** An' I've heurd ob Romeo an' Greece an' all 
 dem ole lubbers," said the old man learnedly, 
 " but de way dese heah two young folks lubbed 
 one ernudder befo' de summer went by wus 
 ernuf to make all de yudder aiges take in deir 
 signs. Dat's de happies' time ob eberybody's 
 life, ennyhow," he soliloquized : ** We ain't got 
 much brains at dat stage, 'kose Nachur didn't 
 intend us ter hab 'em ; ef we did we wouldn't 
 git kotch in de trap she sets fur us — de trap ob 
 matermony. Arter we gits kotched," said the 
 old man as he shook all over with quiet laughter 
 — ** arter we git kotched, we lak de fox in de 
 fable dat got hees tail in de steel trap — we kerry 
 it roun' wid us ebrywhar we go an' make out lak 
 hits des whut we wus lookin' fur all de time, an' 
 er butiful ornerment — but Lor, hit pinches mighty 
 hard all de same." 
 
 (A vigorous, jerky puffing in the doorway and 
 clouds of outraged smoke went up to the stars !) 
 
 **An' whut you reckon my idee ob Heaben 
 am ?" queried the old man emphatically. *' Hit's 
 er blessed place way up on sum star, whar de 
 Good Marster 'lows us ter fall in lub ebry day, 
 but neber 'lows us ter spile de dream by marryin' 
 — fur dat would sho' bust up Heaben I" he said 
 as he shot another look at the doorway. **An' 
 I kin prove it by de Scripturs deysef," he con- 
 
 55 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 tinued. ** Don't de Scripturs say *dar shall be 
 no marryin' nur gibbin' in marriage?' an' don't 
 dey also teech us dat up in Heaben we will all 
 lub one ernudder ? Wei jes' put dem two argy- 
 ments togedder an' tell me how you gwinter git 
 erround 'em, sah. Don't dat prove de p'int ?" 
 
 ** I don't wish to get around them," I laughed, 
 **they seem to be good doctrine; but go on 
 with your story." 
 
 *' Wal, sah, de match wus de talk ob de coun- 
 try, as bein' de mos' suiterabules' one dat eber 
 wus. 
 
 ** Marse Henry an' Miss Kitty ! When I thinks 
 ob dem ternight I kin see de dew on de young 
 grass ob life, de roses in de gyarden ob lub, an' 
 de stars in de skies ob happiness. 1 smell de 
 flowers ob de past ergin lak dey uster smell when 
 1 wus young. I see de long walks in de shade 
 ob de ellums an' de oaks, an' de breaf ob de 
 prim-roses floats ober de gyarden. I see de hoss- 
 back rides when de flutter ob Miss Kitty's ribbon 
 meant de flag ob de yunerverse to Marse Henry, 
 an' de perfume on her bit ob lace han'kerchief 
 brought up de sweetes' fragrance frum de depths 
 ob hees hart. Her eyes wus so bright dey'd 
 bring him up befo' day, lak de sun befo' its time, 
 an* her cheeks wus es butiful es de mohnin' 
 skies erbloom. 
 
 ** O dar am lubs an' lubs, but dar am only jes' 
 one fus' lub fur us all. De make-shifts arter 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 dat am lak tryin* to make de red rosebud bloom 
 twict.'' 
 
 ** But sumhow ruther ole Marster had his haid 
 sot on er young lawyer in town dat dey called 
 Capin' Estes, dat wuz also courtin' Miss Kitty, 
 lak ebrybody else dat seed 'er, an' ole Marster 
 looked wid mo' favor on his suit dan he did on 
 Marse Henry's, on account ob de relashunship 
 betwixt 'em. But dar's where ole Marster missed 
 it, an' de onlies' time I urver knowed 'im to miss 
 it. But dis feller wuz slick, an' he done it all 
 wid de leetle insterment in 'is jaw. He was allers 
 talkin' erbout de constertooshunal perogatives ob 
 de divine right ob freemen' an' er makin' law 
 speeches in de Jestis court an' er windin' up wid 
 *my country, my muther, my Gord, an' my 
 feller citizens,' fer he was sech a demijug he 
 allers put de citizens highes'. Ef he wasn't free 
 wind at de rasho ob i6 ter i, an' de onlimited 
 coinage ob brass, my name ain't Washingtun ! 
 Why, he cu'd talk on fo' things at de same time, 
 pocket er fee on bof sides ob er case, an' keep 
 one eye on de bar-room an' de yuther on de 
 church steeple. He cu'd play poker lak er gam- 
 bler, drink lak er Kansas drought, an' pray lak 
 er country deacon. He cu'd get drunk lak er 
 sinner, an' yit stan' highes' es er saint ; mak lub 
 wid one eye to Miss Kitty an' yit keep de yuther 
 solemnly sot fur ole Marster lak St. Paul watchin' 
 fur revolushuns ! 
 
 57 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 **But de thing soon cum to er end. Marse 
 Henry was too honerbul to court a gal widout her 
 daddy's say-so, an' de Chewsday befo' Easter 
 him an' ole Marster had er long talk in de library. 
 Den Marse Henry cum out sorry lak an* solemn 
 an' he tells me ter take extry keer ob Jap — dat 
 wuz his haf-thurrerbred saddle boss — an' ter rub 
 'im down well, an' ter feed 'im oats, not er grain 
 ob cohn. 'Fur,' sez he, 'Wash, I'm agwine 
 erway furebber !' 
 
 " An' dat night I seed er ghost ! Hit wuz jes' 
 arter Marse Henry started off. I hilt his sturrup 
 an* beg 'im wid tears in my eyes not ter leab us : 
 'Who gwi' he'p me take keer ob de bosses now 
 an* pick out de yearlin's fur de spring races ? 
 Who dis nigger gwi' toiler arter de houn's in de 
 spring an' de patterges in de fall ? Who gwi' be 
 de mohnin sun ob de place in de strength ob his 
 truth an' honer, an' de sweet moonlight in his 
 tender senterment an' simplicty ? Who gwi' set 
 de 'zample 'mong de young folks fur dat conshus 
 quietness dat cums wid de knowledge ob game- 
 ness dat am afeered ob nothin' but doin' wrong ? 
 O, Marse Henry ! Marse Henry, we can't let 
 you go !' 
 
 "I hilt on ter his sturrups an' beg 'im ergin 
 an* ergin, fur sumhow I felt lak I'd nurver see 
 'im enny mo'. But he only grip my han' ergin 
 an' ergin, an' look at me good-by — good — by — 
 wid his eyes, fur he cudden't talk, an' rode off 
 
 58 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 in de gloom down de big row ob ellums. An' 
 dars whar I seed er ghost ! De fus' one I eber 
 seed ! Fur es I stood watchin' 'im wid sumpin' 
 lak er pound weight in my throat, an' mighty 
 nigh a ton in my heart, I seed dat ghost plain es 
 I ebber seed ennything ! He hed got nearly to 
 de gate in de dark ob de big obershadowin' trees 
 whar de new moon wuz tangled up in de lim's 
 (sho' sign er bad luck !) when out slip de ghost 
 frum behind er big tree an' I lakter drap in my 
 tracks ! De lump went down in my throat, but 
 great Gawd, how my hair riz ! De ghost wuz 
 dressed in er windin' sheet ob white an' wid long 
 hair hangin' down er back, an' she skeered Jap 
 so he bolts an' snorts ; an' she muster skeered 
 Marse Henry too, fur 1 seed 'im stoop down ter 
 grab dat ghost an' sabe hissef, an' — an' — den — 
 fo' Gawd ! I kno' yo' won't beliebe it, but 
 Marse Henry jes' kissed dat ghost time an' ergin 
 an' 1 heurd 'im say *furebber my darling,' er 
 sumpin' dat sounded lak it, an' den Jap's gallup 
 clattered up de pike an' de young Marster dat I 
 lub so well wuz gone !" 
 
 "How yo' know dat wuz er gal-ghost ef yo' 
 nurver seed one befo' ?" came mercilessly from 
 the doorway. " O you'll be inexpressibul in de 
 tater-patch to-morrer !" But the old man had not 
 been married fifty years and failed to learn the 
 first lesson of matrimony, so he said nothing but 
 sorrowfully continued : 
 
 59 . 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** De naixt thing we heurd, Marse Henry wuz 
 way down in Fluridy, an' de naixt he hed jined 
 General Lopez wid de five hundred Americans dat 
 went ober ter he'p de Cubans fight fer liberty. 
 An' dey got er fighter when dey got Marse 
 Henry ! Hit was bred in 'im, fur it cum jes' es 
 nachul fur us Scotch-Irish ter fight fur liberty — 
 ennybody's liberty an' enny kinder liberty — es 
 it is fer er game cock ter crow when he sees de 
 fus* beam ob daylight. 
 
 ** Fur Liberty," said the old man, ** is de day- 
 light ob humanity ! An' while I'm on dat sub- 
 jec'," he said warmly, "I jes' wanter go on 
 record 'bout dese Cuban fights : Dat wuz forty- 
 five years ergo, an' I heurn tell dese Cubans am 
 makin* de same fight now dey did den. I heah 
 de papers call 'em rebels, but I tell yo', sonny, 
 dat am er wrong name. Ef dey succeeds de 
 wurl will call 'em patriots ! 
 
 "Fur rebel," he said, "is de name dat 
 tyranny gibs to de onsuccessful patriot ! 
 
 "An' hit makes my blood bile," he said, as 
 he grew excited, arose from his chair, and threw 
 his banjo down, " hit makes my blood bile when 
 I sees how we set back on our dignerty, burn 
 fiah-crackers, cellerbrate de fourth ob July, an' 
 scream fur de bird ob freedom twell we hab er 
 case ob kronic sore-throat, an' den call de folks 
 dat am makin' de same fight we made, rebels. 
 An' wussen dat ; set right still aholdin' to de 
 
 60 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 tail ob our eagle — (fur fear he'll fly ober dar I 
 reckon) — an' fusin' to help 'em. We, who fit fur 
 luss dan one-tenth dese people hafter stan', now 
 arter we git strong an' pow'ful, we set back an' 
 see dem make de same fight we made, an' feered 
 all de time to open our moufs, lest we take er 
 bad cold ! 
 
 "Or ef we does we puts our han's ober our 
 harts an' bows an' scrapes erroun' dat little nest 
 ob royal crows, dat useter be Spanish eagles, an' 
 talk erbout de curt'sy ob Nashuns an' all dat! 
 Shame, I say !" 
 
 As he sat down after delivering this rebuke, 
 his voice was peculiarly sad as he continued : 
 '/But you've read history an' kno' how dat fight 
 ended. Marse Henry beat 'em time an' ergin, 
 but arter erwhile de leetle ban' was oberpow- 
 ered by de whole Spanish army, an' — wal" — he 
 wiped away a tear — "dem dat didn't die in de 
 fight wus hung up lak dogs ! All but Marse Henry 
 — brave, generus, noble Marse Henry ! De 
 papers said dat he erlone wuz shot, dat he gib de 
 Spanish offercers ole Jap, de horse he lubbed so 
 well, ef he'd shoot 'im lak er sojer, an' not hang 
 'im lak er spy ! An' dey shot 'im fer doin' whut 
 wuz bred in 'im ter do, when two ob his gran'- 
 daddies follered de flag ob Green's brigade in 
 No'th Calliner, or helped whip ole Ferguson at 
 King's Mountain. 
 
 " Po' Marse Henry ! Wal, sah, de news lakter 
 
 6i 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 kill us. Hit hurt eben ole Marster, fur I uster 
 heah him walkin' de library flo' an' talkin* erbout 
 it to hissef : * De boy wuz too high strung/ he 
 would say. * I did not want 'im to leab us. I 
 had no idea he wuz gwine on dat fool filler- 
 buster !' An' den he would storm erroun' dat 
 room an' git hot under de collar as he thort how 
 contrary to de rules ob war dey had acted in 
 shootin' Marse Henry, an' den all at onct I see 
 'im tak down de ole sword his daddy wore at 
 King's Mountain, an' es he fotch it down wid a 
 bang on de library table lak he thort de whole 
 Spanish army wuz dar, he sez : * Dam dem 
 Spanish dogs ! Dey am nuifm' but hired cowards, 
 an' I cud tak er regerment ob Tennessee troops 
 lak dat brave boy an' gib de Union de leetle 
 islan' es a birf-day gif '. Dam 'em, I say !' O, 
 ole Marster wuz sho' mad, an' when he got mad 
 in er righteous cause he cud mak Unkle Toby 
 ershamed ob his cussin' record ! 
 
 ** An' Miss Kitty ! — I jes' can't talk erbout it 
 widout chokin' up. Fur two yeahs she went in 
 deep mournin', his own widder cudden't er tuck 
 on wusser, fur she nurver smiled an' noboddy 
 wuz 'lowed ter menshun Marse Henry's name, 
 hit seemed to 'feet her so ! 
 
 *' But Time am Sorrow's doctah," sagely con- 
 tinued the old man, **an' his poultice will draw 
 out de sharpes' pain ! 
 
 **Five long yeahs passed, an' Estes had got 
 
 62 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 high up in pollertics ; he started out on er brass 
 basis an' went frum postmaster ter Congress. 
 He'd er gone ter Heaben ef he could er worked 
 it through er pollitercal convenshun ! 
 
 ** An' now, whut you reckon ? De news cum 
 dat he gwine ter marry Miss Kitty — an' sho' 
 'nuff — hit's true ! 
 
 " When I foun' hit out, I gin up all faithjn man- 
 kind in gin'ral an' womankind in perticler. But 
 den 1 felt sorry fur Miss Kitty when I larnt dat 
 she wuz jes' gwine ter marry 'im to please 'er old 
 daddy — fur she'd do ennything honorbul fur ole 
 Marster — an' dat she tole Estes she would marry 
 'im but dat she would allers lub Marse Henry. 
 She nurver tole me, mind you, but one night I 
 seed it plainer den wurds kin tell. 1 seed it an' 
 knowed 'er heart wuz in Marse Henry's grabe. 
 I seed er ghost ergin, but hit wuz Marse Henry's 
 ghost dis time. 
 
 ** Dis wuz de Chewsdy night befo' Easter, jes' 
 five yeahs to de night dat Marse Henry went 
 away. De big weddin' wuz ter cum off de naixt 
 night an' de house wuz full ob comp'ny an' cakes. 
 Miss Kitty nurver smiled, but hed gone erbout all 
 day lak de Greek maiden, spotless an' pyore, dat 
 de skule books tell us dey useter kill to de wicket 
 idols in de ole times befo' de gates ob Troy. 
 
 '* Dat night I had gone ter sleep thinkin' erbout 
 Marse Henry, an' how Jap useter stan* in de fust 
 stall naixt to de door ; how Marse Henry allers 
 
 63 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 useter cum whistlin' outen de house when he 
 wanted me to saddle Jap, an' how we useter talk 
 erbout de hosses, an' go to de races an' hooraw 
 ef our hoss won. I wuz jes' thinkin' how open 
 an' manly he wuz, an' how fur erpart he wuz 
 frum dat Estes es de two ends ob Eternity, an' 
 den, whut you reckon ? I heurn Marse Henry 
 cum outen de house lak he did in de days ob old. 
 I heurd 'im cum down to de stable do', an' pop 
 his ridin' whup es er signal fer me ter bring up 
 Jap, an' den slash his whup on his leg while he 
 waited — ^jes' lak he useter do hundreds ob times 
 befo', an' all so nachul lak, jes' lak he wuz gwinter 
 ride ole Jap ergin arter de houn's. An' den, sah, 
 I heurd his voice jes' es plain es I urver heurn 
 annything an' jes' lak he useter say, only hit 
 seemed so faint an' fur erway : * Hello, Wash, 
 saddle Jap ! It's time we wuz takin' er han' in 
 de fun !' I heurd it so plain, I jumped outen de 
 bed, an' said es I rushed to open de do', * I'm 
 cumin', Marse Henry, I'm cumin' !' But when I 
 open de do' I wuz so diserpinted I lak ter cried, 
 fur I cudden't see nuifm' but de trees in de dim 
 moonlight, an' I heurd nuffm' but de hoot ob de 
 owl ober in de woods. I felt so cuis I cudden't 
 go ter sleep, fur I wuz sho' Marse Henry's spirrit 
 wuz summers erbout, an' dat he cudden't rest in 
 his grabe on ercount ob de weddin', an' I jes' 
 walked down to de gate whar I last seed 'im five 
 yeah befo' go down de road, nurver to cum back 
 
 64 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 enny mo'; eb'rything wuz so nachul I thought I 
 heurd Jap's footfalls ergin, an' den! — whut wuz 
 dat I seed all dressed in white wid her long hair 
 hangin' down her back an' kneelin' down under 
 de tree whar she last seed Marse Henry erlive, 
 an' sobbin' lak her hart wud break ? De same 
 ghost I seed dat night five years ergo. I cudden't 
 Stan' an' look at sech sacred grief as dat, so I 
 went in my house thinkin' maybe de las' one 
 wusn't a ghost sho' 'nuff, but jes' Miss Kitty 
 prayin' at de tree she last seed Marse Henry er- 
 live an' weepin' de las' time she cud honorably 
 weep fur 'im. 
 
 ** De naixt day was de big day, but I cudden't 
 stay dar an' see dat sacrilege. 'Sides dat, I felt 
 cuis 'bout seein' Marse Henry's ghost, an' I 
 knowed sumpin' wuz gwine happen. I knowed 
 it fur sho' when I went in de kitchen next mohn- 
 in' an' heurd sister Calline tell how she found er 
 screech owl in Miss Kitty's room dat mohnin'. 
 Sez I to myself : * Dar ! I knows whut gwinter 
 happen now. Po' innercent angel ! She'll nur- 
 ver lib twell termorrow — but thang Gawd fur it, 
 fur dat yudder Screech Owl will nurver git in her 
 room !' 
 
 ** But when I went to de stable, dar wuz er- 
 nudder sign : Ole Flint, Marse Henry's ole pet 
 houn', an' de bes' one dat urver smelt er deer 
 track, wuz stone dead in de stall, dead frum er 
 snake bite, too ! * Dat's dat Estes doin's ergin,' 
 5 6^ 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 sez 1. ' Po' innercent Miss Kitty !' An' de cows 
 
 wuz pawin' an' lowin' at de pastur bars ! Now 
 eb'rybody knows dat when de milk cows go ter 
 pawin' an' lowin' in de mohnin' befo' brekfus, 
 somebody gwinter die befo' night. I stood eben 
 dat, but 1 gin up when I went to de well ter draw 
 water fur de horses, fur dar wuz Miss Kitty jes' 
 as plain es she cud be, laid out in her coffin in 
 her bridal dress ! 
 
 " I drapped dat bucket an' lit out frum dar ! 
 
 " An' I went to ole Marster an' beg 'im to let 
 me go down to de lower place, five miles erway ; 
 an' I went to de lower place, five miles erway, 
 an' dar I staid all day long waitin' fur de calam- 
 erty to cum, an' groanin' in de spirit lak de 
 proffit ob ole when he know de buterful city 
 gwinter fall. Fur I seed Miss Kitty dead jus' es 
 plain es I see you ! 
 
 **0, dat wus er terribul day, an' one dat I'll 
 nurver furgit, an' I sot dar in de cabin an' fast- 
 ed, an' didn't eat nuffin all day, an'wrastled wid 
 de spirit in prayer, all day long. 
 
 *' De weddin' wuz ter cum off at nine er clock 
 at night. I wuz settin' in de cabin do' by my- 
 self ; all de yudder darkies had gone to de big 
 home fur de weddin' supper — but I didn't wanter 
 go ; I hed no stummic dat night — I wuz all heart, 
 thinkin' 'bout po' Marse Henry an' Miss Kitty's 
 fun'ral dat I knowed wuz bleeged ter cum ! 
 
 ** Jes' es de clock struck nine, I heard er hoss 
 
 66 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 cum up de pike, clatter, clatter, bipperty, bipperty, 
 bipperty, an' 1 jumped up mighty nigh er yard 
 high! 
 
 *M knowed de soun' ob dem feet! I'd kno' 
 'em in er million — dem wuz Jap's feet, an' I 
 hollered, glory haliyluyer ! Befo' I knowed 
 whether ter run under de bed or out on de pike 
 — fur I wuz sorter skeered an' sorter brave — er 
 big, strong, fme lookin' man, es brown es er young 
 hick'ry an' sinewy es er race boss, pulled up his 
 boss, covered wid sweat an' foam, at de do'. 
 Pulled up his boss quick lak an' nachul — too 
 nachul fur dis nigger, fur jes' de moshun ob de 
 han' fotch de tears to my eyes — fur dat boss wuz 
 Jap, de same blood-lak, cordy-legged, big-nos- 
 triled, graceful Jap ob old ! 
 
 " An' grate Gawd ! One look in de blue eyes 
 ob de rider, de fme mouf, de frank, manly face, 
 now bronzed an' er trifle stern, hit wus Marse 
 Henry ! Marse Henry ! 
 
 **I jumped up an' sed, * O, Marse Henry, 
 ghost er no ghost, I'm gwinter hug you !' — an* I 
 did, hugged him an' Jap, too. 
 
 ** An' Marse Henry laf an' sed : f Wash, my 
 boy, I'm no ghost, but flesh an' blood, an' awful 
 hongry flesh at dat. What am you doin' way 
 down heah ? Gib us sumpin' ter eat, fur I'm 
 anxious to git on to de ole place an' we need 
 sumpin' to brace us up. Jap an' I have cum over 
 er hundred miles sence daylight, an' while dat's 
 
 67 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 no long ride fur us, you kno' we bleeged ter hab 
 sumpin' ter run on,' he sed laffin'. 
 
 " Lor', sonny, you jes' orter seed me hustle er- 
 roun' ! An' whiles I wuz fixin' 'im sumpin' to 
 eat, he tole me all erbout it, how he hed jined 
 Lopez an' sailed frum Key West, an' all erbout 
 de fights he hed. An' he sed dat he wuz de 
 onlies' one left ob all his men, an' dat he owed 
 his life to Jap's heels an' er Spanish gineral. He 
 sed dat when he stormed Las Pozas, his men run 
 ober de Spaniards an' whupped 'em in er twinkle, 
 an' dat sum ob his men begun to hang de Span- 
 iards in return fur hangin' sum ob dairs de yeah 
 befo', but when he foun' it out he tried to stop it 
 an' he run in an' cut down de Spanish gineral 
 dat dey had hung up, but dat his men got mad 
 eben wid him an' mutinied an' he hed to draw 
 his pistols on his men an' cut down de officer at 
 de point ob his guns, 'kase he sed he wan't fight- 
 in' er hangin' war but er civilized war. 
 
 ** An' he sabed de officer's life an' exchanged 
 'im an' saunt 'im home. De papers wuz right in 
 sayin' xWarse Henry wuz arterwards oberpowered 
 an' hed ter surrender, an' de dozen er two left 
 wuz sentenced to be hanged. In vain Marse 
 Henry beg 'em to shoot 'em lak soljers, but dey 
 hung his men befo' his eyes, an' dey wooder 
 hung him, but he bribed de officer in charge wid 
 de gift ob Jap to 'low 'im to be shot and not 
 hung ! 
 
 68 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 ** E>e naixt mohnin' when dey led Marse Henry 
 off td be shot, an' when he wuz er mile or two 
 frum de lines, de gineral whose life he hed sabed 
 wuz waitin' at de spot fur 'im, an' commanded 
 de squad to halt, an' den he gib Marse Henry his 
 side-arms an' Jap, dat he foun' de officer wid, an' 
 he sed to Marse Henry : * Go ; you sabed my 
 life onct at de risk ob yo' own. I returns de 
 compliment.' 
 
 ** An' den Marse Henry told me how he hed 
 went in de sugar bizness an' made er fortune an* 
 now he cum back ergin to lib. 
 
 ** * But dat wuz fo' yeah ago, Marse Henry,' 
 sez I ; * Why aint you cum home befo' or write 
 us dat you still libin ?' An' den Marse Henry's 
 face grew dark es he sed : ' Bekase, Wash, 
 Unkle Robert wrote me befo' de war wuz ended 
 dat Kitty wuz married to Estes, an' — ' 
 
 ** * Dat's a lie, Marse Henry,' 1 shouted, es I 
 cum to my senses ergin an' thout ob Miss Kitty 
 fur de fust time — * dat's er lie ! Ole Marster 
 didn't write no sech letter es dat ! She ain't 
 married yit — leastwise — dat is ter say — O, 
 Marse Henry, am. it nine erclock yit ? An' she 
 nurver will be fur she's boun' ter die ternight, 
 an' I'm waitin' out heah to kno' when to go to de 
 fun'ral — po' innercentangell !' an' I 'spec' I begun 
 ter cry. 
 
 " Marse Henry look at me stern lak, an' ax me 
 what I mean. Den I went back an' tole 'im all, 
 
 69 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 an' 1 seed de tears run down his cheeks es I tole 
 Mm how she hed loved an' suffered all dese yeahs. 
 An' I tole 'im 'bout de ghost scene las' night an' 
 how she sobbed under de trees, an' as 1 tole him 
 I seed 'im shake all over lak er child er sobbin', 
 an' when l4ole him 'bout de nurver failin' death 
 signs I'd seen dis mohnin', an' dat 1 'spec' right 
 now she dun dead er married — 'twould be all de 
 same to her — he vaulted wid one leap in de saddle 
 an' 1 seed Jap's tail tly up es he plunged two 
 spurs in his side, an' es he shot erway in de night 
 I heurd 'im say sorter hard lak : * Poller me, 
 Wash, fur I'm gwinter take er hand in dat fun'- 
 ral !' 
 
 ** I jumped on er race filly ole Marster hed in 
 trainin' at de lower place, an' I follered 'im wid 
 my heart beatin' er drum in my breast, an' de 
 wind playin' er fife in my two years ! Lor', sah, 
 dat filly cud fly ! but run es she mout, dar sot 
 Marse Henry allers jes' erhaid, lookin' lak er 
 statue on Jap; an' de ole hoss runnin' lak er 
 swamp buck wid de pack at his heels ! Runnin', 
 sah, lak he knowed whut wuz up an' dat ten 
 minnits now wuz wurth yeahs termorrer ! An' 
 ev'ry now an' den I'd ketch er glimpse ob Marse 
 Henry's back an' heah 'im say: 'Grate Gawd, 
 ef I kin only git dar in time 1' 
 
 "Nobody'll urver b'leeve it," continued the 
 old man, " but we broke de five-mile record dat 
 night, sho ! An' when we cum to de house it wuz 
 
 70 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 lit up frum garret to cellar, an' I cud see de guests 
 in de parlors an' halls an' heah de music an' de 
 lafter. But es I rid up closter, my hart sunk in 
 my buzum, an' we bofe pulled up wid er jerk ; 
 fur dar, standin' dar in de light ob de bay winders 
 wid flowers above an' belo' an' in de lace ob 
 de curtains, dar stood Miss Kitty ! An' de 
 orange blossums wuz in her hair, an' a man wuz 
 by her side, an' dey wuz shakin' ban's wid de 
 people. 
 
 " Grate Gawd, dey wuz married I 
 
 ** I looked at Marse Henry, spectin' to see 'im 
 pale an' shaky lak I wuz, an' mighty nigh ready 
 ter fall down offen his boss, but dars whar I ober- 
 looked de thurrerbred dat wuz in 'im, an' stead ob 
 bein' pale, de lub light wuz in his eyes, but he 
 hed dat cuis hard smile on his lips datallers made 
 me think ob de cocked hammer ob a hair-trigger 
 durringer. 
 
 ** He spurred up clost to me an' jes' es nachul 
 lak es ef he wuz tellin' me ter saddle Jap, an' jes' 
 es quiet es if he wuz gwine to church, he sez : 
 'Wash, be keerful now, fur you maysabe er life 
 wid er level haid. I will ride up to de side porch, 
 jes' whar it reaches to Jap's saddle skirts. I 
 mus' speak to Kitty once mo' befo' I go back to 
 Cuba foreber. Slip in an' tell her sum one wants 
 to see her quickly, on de side po'ch. Go, an' 
 remember your haid !' 
 
 ** I wuz glad ernuf to go. All de sarvants wuz 
 
 71 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 now pourin' in to shake ban's wid Miss Kitty, 
 arter de white folks hed shook, an' I cum in 
 nacherly wid de res'. De white folks hed stood 
 back an' wuz watchin' our awkard way, an' de 
 room wuz full ob flowers an' sweet sents an' 
 hansum folks. 
 
 *' But Miss Kitty jes' hanted me — I cudden't 
 keep my eyes offen her. She wuz es butiful es 
 truth in de halls ob de angels, an' yet es sad es 
 sorrow at de grabe ob her fust born. She look 
 lak er queen bowin' right an' left, an' her grace 
 shone lak er pillar in a temple. She tried her 
 bes' ter smile on us po' niggers dat had raised 
 her an' lubbed her all hier life, but de smile jes' 
 flickered 'round her dark, sad eyes lak er April 
 sunbeam tryin' to git out frum behind er March 
 cloud. When she shuck ban's wid me I seen two 
 tears start up in her eyes, lak little silver-side 
 fish dat rise to de surface ob de lake fur air, an' 
 I knowed she wuz thinkin' ob Jap an' his rider, 
 an' I cudden't stan' it no longer ; 1 jes' stuck my 
 big mouf up to her lily bloom ob a yeah an' tried 
 to say it easy, but it seemed to me de folks heurd 
 it ober at quartahs, er mile erway : ' Gawd 
 bless yo', Miss Kitty, honey ! But cum out on 
 de side po'ch, quick !' 
 
 '* Fur er secon' she looked at me lak she thort 
 I wuz crazy, an' den 1 tried ergin, steppin' on her 
 butiful dress an' little white slipper, 1 got up so 
 close an' whispered so yearnestly : 
 
 72 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 '* * Miss Kitty ! Miss Kitty ! ! fur Gawd's sake 
 cum out on de side po'ch, quick !' 
 
 "She nodded her haid, an' I seed she thort 
 sumbody wuz in distress, an' es I went out, I seed 
 her excuse herself to de guests an' — an' — wal, 
 de feller dat wuz standin' in de winder wid 'er, 
 an' den she gethered her trail in her lef han' an' 
 follered me out es stately es Pharo's darter fol- 
 lered de niggers ob old." 
 
 Here the old man paused, and a look of triumph 
 glinted in his dim eye, as he said, " Dar am sum 
 scenes in life fixed on our mem'ry so dey git 
 plainer es we gro' older, an' dis wuz one. De 
 happiness ob two libes wuz at stake, an' I trim- 
 bled so I cudden't think, fur I knowed a wurd too 
 soon or too late or out ob place would ruined 
 eb'rything. De poppin' ob er match mig)it er 
 brought on er shootin' an' de whinny ob a black 
 boss es he stood blacker in de night mout er 
 turned er weddin' inter er fun'ral. 
 
 " I glanced at de side po'ch — dar sot er black 
 hossman on er steed es black es he wuz. Not er 
 muscle moved, but I seed two steel-blue eyes 
 shine eben in de darkness. Den out cum Miss 
 Kitty, so nachul lak, an' soft an' easy : 
 
 ** * What is it. Wash ; who wishes to see me.-** 
 
 '* I p'inted to de hossman. Den I heurd her step 
 es she walked ercross to de shadder, an' den I 
 heurd er voice cum outer de shadder : * Oh, 
 Kitty, my darlin', have you indeed forgotten me?' 
 
 73 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 **To my dyin' day Til see her es she heser- 
 tated, tried to advance, stopped, staggered, an* 
 fell into de outstretched arms ob de hossman, es 
 she exclaimed pitifully : ' Dear hart, I tole them 
 all de time I wuz yores !' 
 
 ** An' whut you reckon Marse Henry dun ? 
 He kissed dat man's wife scanlus, time an' ergin, 
 an' stead ob spurrin' erway wid her lak I spected 
 to see 'im do, an' lak ennybody else wooder dun, 
 he jes' walked wid 'er, dead fainted es she wuz, 
 right inter de parlor whar dey all wuz, an' laid her 
 gently down on a sofer, an' den he turned 'round 
 lak er majah gineral reviewin' troops, an' he 
 said : * Unkle Robert, I have a word to say heah !' 
 
 **Wal, sah, 'mazement wan't de wurd. De 
 wimmin screamed an' de men looked lak dey 
 wanted to. Eben ole Marster cudden't do nufifm' 
 but stare. Estes cum to fust an' made er quick 
 movement to git to de sofer whar Miss Kitty 
 wuz, quiet es er spirit. But when Marse Henry 
 seed 'im, his eyes flashed lak two stars, an' I 
 dodged my haid spectin' to heah er pistol shot 
 naixt, but I didn't, only dis frum Marse Henry, 
 'an it cum from 'im lak er battery, es he laid one 
 han' on er instrument dat hed bin all through de 
 Cuban fight : 
 
 ** * Stan' whar you am, sah ! fur I'm heah to 
 settle wid you fust !' 
 
 "An'den he tuhned loose. Gawd, sah, he 
 towered ober Estes lak er lion dat hed cum home 
 
 74 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 an* foun' er cur in his house. An' all de time 
 his eyes shone lak lightnin' an' his face wuz sot 
 lak er jedge's, an' his voice wuz lak er god's I 
 He pulled de forged letter out an' ole Marster 
 read it, an' Miss Kitty cum to an' read it, an' he 
 tole Miss Kitty how he writ to her time an' ergin 
 an' at las' got dis letter. An' she cried lak her hart 
 would break, an' she tole how she hed writ to 
 him time an' ergin befo' she heurd he wuz dead, 
 an' nurver got no letter, an' befo' I knowed it I 
 jes' hollered out : ' O, hit pays to be postmaster, 
 hit do!' 
 
 " An', sah, whut do you reckon ole Marster 
 dun? He jes' hugged Marse Henry an' wrung 
 his han' an' call 'im his son, an' den he got so 
 mad he lost his ole haid, an' cum runnin' out in 
 de hall, an' sed : * Wash ! Wash ! Bring me my 
 pistols, Wash ! The forgin' villain to dare marry 
 a gemman's darter I' 
 
 '* In er minnit he cum runnin' back wid er pair 
 ob durrungers in his ban's an ernudder pair in 
 his eyes, an' he rushed up to Marse Henry an' 
 sed : * Henry, my son, you shan't kill 'im ! Let 
 yore ole uncle hab dat pleasure. The forger ! 
 Why, he married my darter, an' I thort he wuz er 
 gemman !' 
 
 *' But Estes wuz gone, gone to parts unkown. 
 An' Miss Kitty wuz laffm' an' cryin', in Marse 
 Henry's arms, befo' all de guests an' eb'rybody, 
 an' ole Marster stop sorter sho't-lkk, when he seed 
 
 75 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 *er, fur he wasn't prepared fur dat, an' Marse Henry 
 laffed an' pulled out ernudder paper — er little slip 
 ob paper, an' den he sed : Mn de sweetness ob 
 dis hour I furgib 'im, Unkle. Besides, he ain't 
 married yore darter. Dis little instrument am 
 jes' five yeahs de oldes'. I'm sorry, Unkle,' he 
 sed wid er twinkle in he's eyes dat belied 
 his appollergy, * but I married Kitty de night 
 befo' I lef five yeahs ago. Heah is de li- 
 cense an' dis am Squire Sanders' signature — an' — 
 why hello. Squire, I'm glad to see you ergin !' es 
 Squire Sanders an' all de folks he knowed flocked 
 erroun' 'im to shake his han'. 
 
 **Gawd, sah, dat wuz er happy night! But 
 nuffin' wud do ole Marster but dat dey mus' be 
 married ober ergin by de Piskolopium preacher, 
 an' in gran' style, too. 
 
 ** So in erbout er hour Marse Henry cum out, 
 dressed in de unerform ob er majah gineral, an' 
 dey wuz married ergin — an de han'somes' pair 
 dat eber sed yes to de preacher. An' when I 
 went up to shake dey ban's, Marse Henry tell me 
 to Stan' by he's side, an' den he pulliout ernudder 
 paper, one jes' freshly writ, an' he read it to all 
 de folks — thang Gawd, he had bought me frum 
 ole Marster ! 
 
 ** An' den he turned roun' to me, nigger dat 
 I wuz, an' he sed wid er tear in he's manly eye : 
 * Wash, a true frien' am a jewel on de finger ob 
 life. I fout too hard fur de freedom ob others to 
 
 ^6 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 see my bes' frien* a slave. I have bought yo* 
 frum Unkle Robert, as dis bill ob sale will show. 
 Take it ; you are free I' 
 
 ** I drapped at his feet an' cried an' kissed his 
 han', but he pulled me up, an' es he put five big 
 gol' pieces in my han' he laffed an' sed : ' An' 
 these are frum my wife, for valuabul assistance 
 rendered at her fun'ral !' 
 
 ** An' es I kissed her sweet han'. Gawd bless 
 her, she looked up at Marse Henry laffin' by her 
 side, an' de smile she gib him wus lak de break 
 ob day in Heaben 1" 
 
 77 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 THE WOLF HUNT ON BIG BIGBY. 
 
 ** T SEE de dudes hev got up er new sport up ter 
 
 *■ Yakee Ian'," said old Wash the other day. 
 " Dey calls it Golf huntin'. Hezitgot ennything 
 ter do wid wolf huntin' ?" he asked. '* Ef it hez, 
 1 jes' wanter say I'll go ter New Jarsey ter see it 
 ergin," said the old man, as he sat down on the 
 wood-pile and laughed as if he was tickled im- 
 mensely. 
 
 " Why, no, it hasn't anything to do with wolf 
 hunting. Why do you ask ?" I said. 
 
 " Wal, de names sounded sorter lak, an' de 
 folks dat plays it am de same sorter fellers dat 
 cum down to our home way back in de fall ob '35 
 ter hunt wolves. But let me put dis ax in de 
 kitchen cellar fus'," he said, as he hobbled across 
 the yard. 'M nurver could tell ennything wid 
 er ax or er hoe starin' me in de face an' 'mindin' 
 me dat man wuz made ter saw wood. 
 
 " Dis country ain't whut hit useter be when 
 Marse Bill Young settled down on Big Bigby way 
 back 'bout eighteen-twenty-fo'. You nurver seen 
 sech Ian' in all yore life — de grandes' forests dat 
 
 78 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 eber sot on de face of de yearth, an' de cane sc 
 big dat you bed to cut roads through it lak it wuz 
 er wilderness. An' de newgroun'! Wal, sah, 
 I nurver seed sich crops sence de good Lord made 
 me ! Why down in de new groun' dat we cleaned 
 up we didn't hafter plant but half er grain er 
 cohn — 
 
 ** Half a grain ! Why?" 
 
 '*Why, good gracious, sah, er haf er grain 
 made er stalk twenty foot high ! Whut we 
 wanter plant er whole grain fer, an' haf sich 
 high cohn we cudden't pull it wid wun ob dese 
 yeah fire ladders! An' punkins ! Marse Bill 
 Young tried 'em wun yeah in de black locus' new 
 groun', an' arter dat he gin strick orders fur no- 
 body ter nurver plant er punkin seed widin ten 
 miles er his farm ergin." 
 
 '* Why ?" I asked. The old man scratched 
 his head as if pondering whether to give his rea- 
 sons or not. 
 
 ** Bekose," he said, " de punkin vines tuck de 
 plantashun, and sum ob 'em run fur miles up in 
 de hills, an' de naixt spring when ole Marster 
 went out ter survey an' preempt mo' Ian', he 
 cum back home mad es de debbil, an' sed ebry 
 mile ertwo fur ten miles eround, sum po' white 
 folks frum de mountains bed cum out in de spring 
 ob de yeah, an' whar eber dey foun' er punkin 
 dey bed squatted on de Ian', scooped out de pun- 
 kin, built er chimbly in wun eend, put in er door 
 
 79 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 an' winders, an' wus libbin dar mighty cheerful 
 lak an' contented twell dey cud build 'em er lit- 
 tle bigger home. Ole Marster'd owned haf de 
 county ef it hadn't been fur dat, sho'!" 
 
 *'Wash," I said, looking him steadily in the 
 eye, " you have gone to lying in your old age." 
 
 " Grate Gord," he said, with a look such as 
 Elijah cast on the prophets of Baal, "thetenny 
 wun should excuse me ob dat in my ole aige 1 
 An' me tellin' whut I seed wid my own eyes an' 
 heurd ole Marster say, too. But dat ain't heah 
 nor dar. I'se tellin' you 'bout de wolf hunt. 
 
 '' Dar wuz er ole she wolf dat libbed down in 
 de cane dat wuz jes' er little de bes' wolf enny 
 body ebber seed. She jes' libbed on our sheep 
 an' horgs, an' dar want no dorg cud bes' her. 
 Ole Marster tried he's pack er houn's on 'er an' 
 she cleaned 'em up in ten minits. Den Cap'n 
 Jim Estes tried he's pack on 'er, and dey all cum 
 home lookin' lak rigimint flags arter de battle ob 
 Waterloo. Den dey raised er crowd ob de boss 
 fightin' dorgs ob de settlement — de brindled kind 
 an de b'ar-fightin' kind — an' dey all hem de ole 
 wolf up in de cane an' rush in ter de tune ob ' Hail, 
 de Conk'rin' Hero Cum,' but, bless yore soul, sah, 
 in erbout five minits dey all cum out howlin' ' De 
 Gal 1 Lef Behin' Mel' 
 
 " Den de whole settlement riz up in arms. 
 Dar wa'n't er man dar dat dat ole wolf hadn't 
 wusted he's dorg, an' I've allers noticed dat 
 
 80 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 when you hurt er man's dorg you jes' es well 
 hit hees chilluns. Hit makes 'im er heap mad- 
 der. We'd er whipped de British long 'fo' we 
 did ef dey hed cum ober heah an' 'stead ob taxin' 
 us widout misrepresentashun dey'd cuffed sum ob 
 our no 'count dorgs erround. Dis whole country 
 woulder riz an' whipped 'em out in three days. 
 Ole Patrick Henry and Boston Massacre wooden 
 er bin in it. 
 
 ** But ole Marster wuz a jus' man, an' he sed 
 dat wolf wuz er free-born 'Merican wolf, an' no 
 man should ambush her an' kill 'er wid er rifle. 
 She shud have er fair chance an' er fair fight ef 
 she et ebry pig on hees place. Ef dey had dorgs 
 good enough to kill 'er, all right ; ef dey didn't, 
 she mout jes' lib on. O, ole Marster wuz er white 
 man, I tells you ; an' hees wurd went in dat set- 
 tlement. So dey jes' gib up an' let de ole wolf 
 have it her way. 
 
 ** Not long arter dat ole Marster went to New 
 York on bizness, an' ter hev er good time at de 
 theaters an' sich. Ole Marster wuz er swell 
 when de 'cashyun riz — but he didn't let it rise too 
 often. When he come back he sorter laugh an' 
 say : 
 
 ''Washington, I've invited de New Jarsey 
 huntin' club down to do up de ole wolf in de Big 
 Bigby cane brake. Dey'll bring er dozen im- 
 ported Roosh'n wolf houn's dat dey say am prize 
 fighters, an' will rid us ob de ole witch.* 
 6 8i 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** * All right/ sez I. * Marster, Til sho* see 
 dat dey finds de enemy.' 
 
 *' Wal, sah, in erbout two weeks er mo* heah 
 dey all cum, an' bless yore life, honey, you 
 nurver did see sich swells as dey wuz. Dey hed 
 on high silk hats, an' grate white collars, an' 
 biled shuts and speckled cravats, an' satin vests, 
 an' corduroy pants and pump-soled boots. An' 
 you b'leeve whut I say ? Sho' 'nuff ! Wal, sah, 
 I'll swear dey hed sho' 'nuff white folks ter wait 
 on 'em ! To' Gord hit's er fac' ! Huh ! Bless 
 yore soul, we niggers didn't *sociate wid dem, 
 dough. Dey ain't no 'ristocratic nigger gwine 
 'sociate wid secon'-class white folks. An' de 
 dorgs ! Now you heurd my horn ! Dey fotch er 
 dozen ob de slickes'-lookin', big-haided, flap- 
 yeared, wus-lookin' houn' dorgs you eber seed, 
 chained two an' two, an' er man jes* ter take 
 keer ob 'em. But I 'spected sumpin wuz wrong 
 soon es I seed 'em, an' dat night when Marster 
 set out a decanter ob fus-class mountin' whisky 
 wid lump-sugar an' mint, an' ax 'em ter take er 
 drink, an* dey all 'fuse kase dey say dar 'stum- 
 micks cudn' stan* sich crude licker,* an* dey 
 would jes' take er little claret wine dey hed in 
 dere trunks, den I knowed de whole layout cudn't 
 bag er kildee. Wal, sah, dey didn't do nuffin' 
 but talk erbout de pedergree ob dem houns an' 
 whut hit cost ter git 'em heah, an* how menny 
 wolves dey kill in Roosher in wun day, an* how 
 
 82 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 sabage dey wuz, and sum ob de niggers wuz 
 list'nin* at de winders an' didn't hab no mo' sense 
 den to b'leeve it, an' hit spread all ober de 
 plantashun an' skeered de pickerninies so dey 
 all sleep wid dey haids under de kiver dat 
 night. 
 
 '*Wal, de naixt day ole Marster mounted 'em 
 an' dey blowed dey horns an' got de houns an' 
 de keeper an' went off in gran' style. I rid er 
 gray mule and went erlong ter show 'em de 
 game. Wal, we wa'nt no time gettin' dar, fur 
 de ole wolf hed er cane swamp whar she libbed 
 and wuz boss in, an' ebrybody knowed it. 
 
 ** Hit muster bin de wrong time ob de moon 
 fur de dorgs er de right time ob de moon fur de 
 wolf — ennyway we struck her in wun ob her 
 wo'st moods. Hit 'peered ter me she'd been 
 pinin' all her life fur er pack ob Roosh'n wolf 
 houn's an' dude hunters, an' I hev no doubt ef 
 she'd been axed into Delmonicky's ter name her 
 bill ob fare she'd er named er dozen Roosh'n 
 wolf houn's on de half shell — dem dat's got con- 
 fidence in deysels an' am fat an' sassy. I can't 
 'spress ter you how happy an' delighted an' highly 
 complimented she wuz when she seed hunters 
 hed imported 'em fo' thousand miles jes' fer her 
 special benefit. Fur fear dey might think she 
 wuz lackin' in perfessional kurtesy she cum out 
 ob her lair, in er nice cleared place, an' met de 
 furriners wid de blandes' smile. Den she back 
 
 83 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 hersef ergin er clay root ter protec' her r*ar an' 
 got down ter bizness. 
 
 *' Boss, dat fight wuz soon ober. De fus' fool 
 houn' dat went in she broke hees back wid wun 
 snap ob her steel-trap jaws — de naixt wun got 
 hees throat cut lak er razor. Dem furrin dorgs 
 hed er furrin language, an' de dyin' yelp ob de 
 fus* was er heabenly translashun fur de yuthers, 
 an' dey lit out. Dey all went back ter Roosher 
 by way ob de Norf Pole an' de ismus of Cant- 
 Ketchem — an' dey went in er hurry. De dudes 
 got mad an' called an' hollered, but dey wa'nt er 
 furrin houn' in de county in two hours. 
 
 " But de fun hed jes' begun. De ole lady bein' 
 diserp'inted, got b'ilin' mad. She kerried de wa' 
 inter dudedom. She run de keeper up er black- 
 gum tree and den lit into de hunters — an' you 
 orter seed 'em cum outer dat swamp. Some ob 
 'em didn't stop runnin' fer ten miles ! De ole 
 lady fit lak she 'membered 'bout sucklin' two 
 genuine white men onc't, way back in de days 
 ob Unkle Rum'lus an' Unkle Remus, an' she 
 know'd whut de right kind ob article wuz, an' 
 now in her old aige ter be played off on by er lot 
 ob counterfeits on humanity an' imported dorgs 
 wuz too much. De darkies on de place say dey 
 heurd de keeper up in de tree prayin' in French 
 all night. 
 
 " De naix't day arter we got 'em off by de 
 fus' stage, ole Marster lacter laf hesef ter death, 
 
 84 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 an' he say he gwineter petishun congress terput 
 de ole wolf on de flag by de side ob de 'Merican 
 eagle. 
 
 " But how you reckin wegotdatolewolfatlas'? 
 Why, me an' er nur'r nigger went possum huntin' 
 wun night wid three good dorgs, an' we got her 
 up thinkin' we hed de bes' coon in de swamp. 
 You know er nigger'll fight all night wid de debbil 
 ef he think it's er coon er 'possum, an' twixt us 
 all we manage ter beat de ole lady ter death. 
 When we kilt her an' struck er light an' seed 
 whut we hed, we drapped her an' got outer dar 
 faster'n we went in. Hit skeers meter think uv 
 it now ! What big things sum folks do widout 
 intendin' it!" 
 
 85 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 GRAY GAMMA. 
 
 ** 1 AIN'T nurver tole you 'bout dat boss race down 
 * to Ashwood, when Marse Bill Young bet me 
 ergin two thousan' dollars ob er Missippy gem- 
 man's money, has I ?" asked old Wash the other 
 night, after he had come in to tell me the young 
 Jersey heifer had found a calf in the meadow lot 
 that day. "Wal, sah, I've seed many er race, 
 but dat wuz de mos' interestines' one, frum my 
 p'int ob view, dat I ebber seed, 'kase I wuz de 
 principalist stakes, an' dey stood me on er stump, 
 an' nuthin' but dat filly's grit saved me frum 
 bein' a dead nigger in Missippy terday, 'stead ob 
 a eminently 'spectable cullered gemman frum de 
 race-hoss state ob Tennessee. 
 
 ** I had er mighty good marster — wus Marse 
 Bill Young — an' he wuz de fust man ter bring 
 thurrerbreds to de country. Ain't I neber tole 
 you 'bout dat bay colt Firefly, by Dan Rice, out 
 ob Margerite, by 'Merican 'Clipse ? Heish ! Long 
 es 1 bin wid you, I ain't neber tole you 'bout dat 
 colt > For de Lawd's sake ! 
 
 *' Wal, sah, he wuz de bes' t'ree-year-ole I 
 
 86 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 eber put er shoe on. Fus' dam by 'Merican 
 'Clipse ; second dam by Timoleon ; third dam 
 by—" 
 
 ** Never mind about his dams/* I remarked, as 
 I gave the old man a cut of " Williamson County 
 Twist/' which I always kept in the drawer for 
 him ; **just go on with the race." 
 
 ** Wal, sah, 1 had er mighty good marster — 
 wuz Marse Bill Young — an' he wuz de fust 
 man to bring thurrerbreds to de country, es I 
 wuz sayin'. He didn't hab but one fault, an' 
 dat wuz he'd bet ennything in de wurl' he 
 had, 'cept his wife an' chilluns, on his own 
 bosses. He neber did think enny ob his own 
 bosses could be beat, but he cum mighty nigh 
 changin' his 'pinion 'bout dat thing onc't, an* 
 losin' erbout de valu'blest nigger in Murry 
 county to boot. Dat nigger wuz me. Mind you, 
 I ain't blowin' my own horn — nobody eber heurd 
 me doin dat — but I'm jes' tellin' you what Marse 
 Bill Young said hissef. 
 
 ** I was de blacksmith fur de plantashun, an' 
 shod all de thurrerbreds. An' right now I can 
 gib any ob dese here new-fangled hoss-shoers er 
 lesson er two, kase we knowed how ter shoe 
 bosses in dem days; ef I hadn't I wouldn't er 
 bin in dis state terday. 
 
 ** Wal, sah, 'bout long in Febrery — 'way back 
 in de forties — dar cum er gemman frum Missippy 
 wid er string er thurrerbreds gwine to Nashville 
 
 87 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 fur de spring races. De Lawd sake ! Dey used 
 ter hang up purses in dem days ! Why, dis same 
 mair, Gray Gamma, dat I'm tellin' you 'bout, 
 won forty thousan' dollars fur ole Marster in 
 one purse — won it in er walk — but, bless yer 
 soul — ole Marster spent it in er fly ! He wuz er 
 white gemman ! Munny wa' nt what he wuz livin' 
 fur. He wuz livin' ter race bosses. 
 
 ** Wal, sah, ez I wuz sayin', all de gemmen dat 
 passed thru de country in dem days, befo' de rail- 
 roads, jes' went out and stopped at ole Marster's 
 — de common folks put up at de hotel — an' so, ez 
 I wus sayin', de Missippy man he put up at ole 
 Marster's too, wid all his bosses an' niggers an' 
 teams an' borrows fur to borrow de track wid, 
 when dey get to Nashville. 
 
 '* Wal, sah, dey bad a mair in dat string frum 
 Missippy dat dey laid great stress on. De Mis- 
 sippy nigger tole me in conferdence she could out- 
 run her shadder wid one leg tied up — an' she 
 cud ! How did I know } Wal, de truf is, me an' 
 de Missippy nigger gib her an' Firefly er midnight 
 trial one moonlight night fur er poun' er Tennes- 
 see terbacco, while ole Marster an' de owner 
 wuz playin' poker fer keeps in de billiard room. 
 Dey called de mare Mary Lef, an' all I know is 
 she lef me an' Firefly dat night jes' lak we wuz 
 er pair er mud muels stuck in er clay bank. 
 Jimminy ! how she could run ! 
 
 ** De nex' day ole Marster cum ter me lookin* 
 
 8S 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 sorter worried — fur he thout er heap er me — an' 
 he said : 
 
 **' Wash, I'm feared I played de mischief las' 
 night/ sez he. 
 
 ** ' How so, Marster ?' says I. 
 
 "'Well, Wash, you know dey can't nobody 
 bluff me when it comes to my bosses. Dey am 
 as good as dey make 'em. An' all I've got ter 
 say ter you is dat I called de Majah's bluff las' 
 night when he talked erbout Mary Lef ' beatin' 
 Firefly. I bet him you an' Firefly ergin two 
 thousan' dollars an' Mary Lef dat he couldn't 
 do it — dat's all — an' ef Firefly can't win, you jes' 
 es well make up your mind to tell us all good-bye. 
 De race comes off day after termorrer, an' er 
 gem'man don't gib his word butonc't. You may 
 shoe de colt termorrer ebenin',' an' he walk off 
 es onconcerned ez ef he wuz tellin' me ter go an' 
 kill hogs. 
 
 "But great sakes ! Whut er knot riz in my 
 throat ! I didn't mind it ef I'd only had er dog's 
 chance — but I done seed what de mair could do — 
 an' I knowed dey wuz playin' er game on Marster, 
 an' dey knowed it, too. An' me ter leave Dinah 
 an' de babies an' ole Tennessee an' all I had on 
 sech a chance es dat ? Wal, sah, I jes' went off 
 an' cried. I knowed it wa'nt no use ter go an' tell 
 Marster all 'bout what me an' de Missippy nigger 
 done, 'kase de debbil hissef couldn't make him 
 break his wurd — an' I'd er got er cowhidin' ter 
 
 89 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 boot. I jes' made up my mind dat all dey wuz 
 in life wuz ober fer Wash. 
 
 ** Wal, sah, when de news spread, an* Dinah 
 heurd it, darwas er scene. She 'lowed she'd go 
 an' beg Marster ter let her an' de babies go too, 
 an* I nurver will fergit de night we went up to de 
 big house — me an' Dinah — to beg Marster not ter 
 sep'rate us. Wal, sah, he cum out on de po'ch 
 es tall an' dignified es ef he owned de yearth — 
 but I knowed he had a warm heart fur all dat — 
 an' Dinah wuz cryin' an' I was mighty silent, 
 an' Dinah said : 
 
 '"Marster, please don't sep'rate us, but jes' 
 put me an' de babies up, too,' an' she could say 
 no more. 
 
 *' Marster looked sorter troubled, lak he hadn't 
 thouterbout de thing befo', an' he walked ter de 
 drawin' room an' said quietly lak : 
 
 "'Majah Fellows, will you step heah er mo- 
 ment.'" 
 
 "An' de Missippy gem'man step' out on de 
 po'ch an' we step back in de shadder, an' ole 
 Marster sez, sez he : 
 
 * ' ' Majah, I wuz a little hasty in my bet the other 
 night. 1 had fergot dis boy had er young wife 
 an' two chilluns. I have neber sep'rated a man 
 an' his wife — in fact, sah, neber sold one ob my 
 niggers — an' fur de sake ob common humanity I 
 would like to amend my bet, if ergreeable ter 
 you.' 
 
 90 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 "'State your amendment, sah,' said de Mis- 
 sippy man, coldly. 
 
 ***The condition of our match, sah,' said ole 
 Marster, quietly, * wuz four-mile heats, an' two 
 thousan' against my nigger. I i<no' yer mair is 
 de fastest, but I believe Firefly can outlast her. 
 He is bred to stay, an' de only chance I have to 
 win is to comply with the four-mile condition. 
 But, in order not to sep'rate this boy an' his wife, 
 I will make the distance only a mile an' a half, 
 an' in case you win I'll put up the woman an' 
 her two children an' er thousan' dollars in gold 
 ergin the boy alone, that my three-year-old filly, 
 Gray Gamma, will beat your mair, Mary Lef, at 
 the same distance.' 
 
 *' * Sence you wish it, sah, so be it,' said de 
 Majah, * but ' — an' hit made my blood bile when I 
 heurd him add — ' it must also be added that the 
 winner of the last race gets both horses con- 
 testin'.' 
 
 " Ole Marster flushed, 'kase it looked lak de 
 Missippy man wanted de yearth. It wa'nt so 
 bad to lose me an' Dinah, but I knowed ole 
 Marster didn't wanter run no risk 'bout losin' 
 de filly, an' when he said * all right, sah,' I knowed 
 he done it jes' fur our sake. But when he men- 
 tioned Gray Gamma my heart give er leap, fur 
 I knowed her blood wuz es pyore es de icicle dat 
 hangs on Dinah's temple, an' es hot es de hart- 
 draps dat flows thru' Juno's veins — fur I heurd 
 
 91 
 
Songfs and Stories 
 
 'O 
 
 ole Marster say it menny er time. She had de 
 meanes' temper in creashun, an' would hab her 
 way er die. She wuz mighty nigh sp'iled in er 
 two-year-old form an' hadn't been raced sence ; 
 but she 'peered to hab got ober it, an' I heurd de 
 trainer tell ole Marster de Lawd only knowed 
 how fas' she could run. Arter we went home 
 I tole Dinah all erbout de filly, an' dat night 
 werastled wid de angel in pra'ar — we prayed dat 
 de angel might take de crotchets outen de filly's 
 head — we knowed she'd do de rest. 
 
 ** Wal, sah, when de day cum, de whole neigh- 
 borhood turned out. Ole Marster put me on er 
 stump an' de Missippy gem 'man put er bag ob 
 gold beside me, an' Firefly an' Mary Lef come 
 up an' wuz soon erway. Spite ob de fac' dat I 
 knowed we had no chance, my heart jes' lak ter 
 break out er my buzzum. I saw Dinah cryin' 
 in de wagon whar she an' de babies wuz, an' 
 den I looked at ole Marster — he wuz jes' smokin' 
 er seegar lak he wuz lookin' at er heat ergin 
 time, an' sez I, * sho'ly he ain't got no heart,' but 
 I knowed better befo' de race wuz ober. Firefly 
 wuz game an' staid wid de mair — I cu'd see he 
 wuz better at de mile dan he wuz at de half, an' 
 better a quarter furder on dan he wuz at de mile, 
 an' I seed what er fool I wuz not ter let ole Marster 
 make it fo' miles ; an' jes' es I begin ter think an' 
 hope dat Firefly would beat her ennyway, Mary 
 Lef's rider went to de whip, de mair made er 
 
 92 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 spurt an' pushed her nose erhead, I heurd er 
 shout, an' I b'longed to de Missippy man ! 
 
 ** I got offen de stump. I cudn't see which 
 way ter go, I wuz cryin' so. Ole Tennessee 
 neber looked so sweet ter me befo'. De wheat 
 fiel's looked greener an' de cabins whiter an' de 
 hills had a charm I neber had know'd befo'. I 
 cudn't hardly walk twell I heurd ole Marster say : 
 * Wash, you am de property ob Majah Fellows,' 
 jes' lak he wuz er gibin' erway er dog, an* sez I 
 to myself, ' sho'ly ole Marster is crazy — he ain't 
 got no soul.' An' I leaned erginde stump. Den. 
 I heurd him say : 
 
 ** ' Majah, while yore mair is coolin' out I'll ask 
 yore permission to let this boy change my filly's 
 shoes — he has bin my blacksmith, you kno*.* 
 
 ***Sartenly, sah,' said de Majah. 
 
 ** An' right dar is whar Marster had sense an' 
 I didn't. It wuz a cold day an' de groun' wuz 
 nearly frozen, an' de track wuz slick. An' 
 Marster said to me at de shed : * Select er very 
 light but rough set ob shoes, cork 'em lightly all 
 erround — I'm surprised Mary Lef's owner can't 
 see dat her plates are too slick fur ice.' An' den 
 he said, sorter smilin' : *You needn't look so 
 solemn, you'll be berried on dat hill yit.' Wal, 
 I dun lak he said, and dat wus one time I sho' 
 did my bes' at shoein' — an' all de time I wuz 
 prayin' fur Gray Gamma ter go off right. When 
 I wuz through, Marster look her ober an' gib her 
 
 93 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 an apple an' patted her neck an' he buckled de 
 girth hissef. 
 
 " When de filly cum out an' derace wuz called 
 1 noticed Marster wuz a changed man — he wuz 
 no longer careless lookin' — he throw erway his 
 seegar — he see ebrything ; yet he laugh an' joke. 
 I follered his tall form es he went up de stretch 
 to gib de jockey orders, an' es he passed de wagin 
 whar Dinah wuz cryin', sez he : * Come, girl, 
 don't be cryin' dar ; hit's prayin' you need — pra'- 
 ars dat de filly gits off right. Ef she do you needn't 
 stay twell de race is ober — jes' take de chillun 
 an' go on back to de cabin,' an' he stalked on 
 an' me er follerin' him so dazed I cudn't hardly 
 walk. 
 
 *'To my dyin' day I'll neber furgit de look dat 
 wuz in ole Marster's eye when he went up to de 
 boy dat wuz on Gray Gamma. 
 
 "'Jim,' sez he, * gimme dat whip,' an' he 
 throwed de rawhide ober de fence. * Dis mair 
 needs pettin' in dis race — not whippin'. Now 
 look at me,' an' his steel-blue eyes looked lak ole 
 Marster cud look at times ; ' dis race is mine ef 
 you let dis filly get off at fust. Don't cross her ; 
 don't stop her; don't draw yer rein. She'll set 
 de pace — jes' you set still an' guide her. Do 
 you heah ? ' 
 
 ** * Yes, Marster,' an' de starter called 'em to de 
 scratch. 
 
 " My heart beat lak a drum. I cudn't hardly 
 
 94 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 breathe ; I cudn't stan', an' I sot down on de 
 groun*. I knowed ebrything depended on de 
 start, dat de filly wuz lak er spoilt gal, an' ef 
 erlowed her own way she'd go wid de joy an* de 
 bound of er angel, but ef checked she. mout sulk 
 all through de race. I neber took my eyes offen 
 her, an' when dey said ' Go !' at de fust trial, 1 
 seed her wheel an' shoot erway lak er beam ob 
 sunlight, an' all at onc't my strength come back 
 an' I jumped up an' sez I : * Thank God ! I'll 
 die in ole Tennessee yit !' 
 
 "But de yudder mair wuz fas', an' when de rider 
 seed Gray Gamma's tactics he jes' turned her 
 loose — an' she dun jes' lak she dun to de colt — 
 crep' up ter de filly's flank, up ter her saddle, up 
 ter her haid, an' sez I, * Is she gwinter beat er 
 ennyhow ?' 
 
 '* Hit's been fifty-odd year," said the old man, 
 as he looked away off in meditation, **but dat 
 picture is branded in my mind es plain terday es 
 ef I seed it now. I ken see eben how de sky an' 
 de clouds looked, an' de outline ob dem two 
 bosses es dey went nose an' nose eround dat track. 
 Hit 'peered lak er hour befo' dey went de mile, 
 an' I dreaded de time I knowed wuz comin' 
 when de rider ob de Missippy mair wud go to his 
 whip. He dun it at de quarter pos', an' thinks I, 
 * now I'm gone ! Missippy will come wid er bolt !' 
 But Gord bless yore soul, honey, Gray Gamma 
 bed er bolt, too, an' when de mair tried ter go by 
 
 95 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 her de boy on Gray Gamma jes* leaned ober 
 an' touch her gently lak wid de spur in de flank 
 an' she jes' grappled de frozen groun' wid dem 
 corks, an' shot her naik ahead, an' I jumped up 
 an' down, an' hollered Halleluyer ! Halleluyer ! 
 I'll lib an' die in ole Tennessee !' An' Gray 
 Gamma ? — she seemed ter git better. She seemed 
 ter fly ! It look ter me lak she neber touched 
 de yearth fer er quarter ob er mile ! I run to 
 de wire at de stump, de same stump I cried on 
 befo', an' I jumped on it lak er game rooster on 
 er barn fence, an' I hollered till dey heurd me at 
 de quarters, two miles erway: * Glory halle- 
 luyer ! — Come home. Gray Gamma !' 
 
 ** An' she cum — de sweetest sight dis nigger 
 eber seed. She cum lak er bloomin' skule gal 
 playin' * Puss in de corner ' in low neck an' short 
 sleeves, wid roses on her breast, mornin' on her 
 cheeks an' stars in her eyes, an' makin' er run 
 fur de home base ! She cum lak ten camp 
 meetin's in full blast — an' me jes' got religun ! 
 She cum lak whole regimen's marchin' ober kittle 
 drums — an' me de drum-majah ! She cum lak 
 "de charriut ob de Lawd in de pillar ob fiah — glory 
 halleluyer ! 
 
 **Wal, sah, all I rickerlec' is dat I had her 
 'roun' de neck an' wuz kissin' de star in her 
 furred, an' I look an' dair stood ole Marster, sorter 
 smilin', wid his eyes sorter moist, an' Dinah 
 tryin' ter kiss his ban's, an' he cum an' put 
 
 96 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 five twenty-dollar gold pieces in my han', an* 
 sez he : *Stop yer blubberin', yer idjut, an' go 
 ter yer cabin ; yer don't know er race boss ef 
 youM meet Mm in de road, an' de naixt time you 
 hab a moonlight race wid my bosses pick out one 
 dat will teach folks how ter race ergin ole Tennes- 
 see !" 
 
 97 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 THE MULE RACE AT ASHWOOD. 
 
 (The old fairs in Maury county sometimes ended 
 in a mule race, in which every effort was made 
 by the spectators to retard the progress of the 
 steeds and make them fly the track. Old Wash's 
 account below is not exaggerated.) 
 
 " 'T^ALK erbouttrottersan* pacers bein' cheap," 
 1 said old Wash the other night, after am- 
 bling in to know if it was true that Coxey 's army 
 was only a scheme to put the colored man back 
 into slavery, '* but you orter seed how cheap 
 thurrerbreds got in Murry county way back in 
 *35. We used 'em es dams fur Tennessee mules, 
 an' dey made de bes' mule in de wurl. A Ten- 
 nessee mule bred dat away am a leetle de bes* 
 pullin' thing dat eber was hitched to de yudder 
 end ob a trace chain. Pull.? Why, I've seed 'em 
 die in de traces, tryin' ter pull er waggin outen 
 de mud. I hup I may die ef I ain't seed one pull 
 her fore shoulders down ter er foot ob her hips. 
 I disremember dat mule conspicuously, 'kase we 
 cut part ob her tail off arter dat an' sold her ter 
 er circus fur er geeraffe. 
 
 *' An* run ! Wal, sah, you orter seed dat race 
 
 98 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 at de ole Ashland track one fall ! Dey got up er 
 mule race, an' ole Marster tole me ef I'd ride his 
 gray mule an' win he'd let me marry er gal dat 
 belonged on ernudder plantashun, an' one dat I'd 
 bin pinin' fur fur er long time, an' ole Marster 
 didn't want me ter marry her 'kase she wasn't 
 in de fam'bly. In dem days, sah, we folks ob de 
 fust qualerty hed ter be mighty 'tickler how we 
 marri'd outen de fambly. I might es well add, 
 right heah," said the old man, ''that arter I got 
 'er I quit pinin' fur 'er. I've noticed it's ginerally 
 dat way. But you wanter know how dat mule 
 wuz bred ? Fust dam by Bosting, secon' dam 
 by 'Clipse, third dam by Diomeed, fourth dam 
 by Flyin' Children, fifth dam by Darley's Ara- 
 bian, an' fur twenty more dat mule went on. 
 On her sire's side she traced all over Spain 
 an' Portugal, Egypt an' de Holy Lan', an' 
 clar up ter de Prince ob Wale hissef. Talk 
 erbout er mule not bein' bred right ! Oh, we had 
 'em in dem days. Thurrerbreds was sho' cheap. 
 " When de race cum off, I made dat mule run 
 lak I 'spected to find de gal hung up at de wire, 
 De yudder mule wuz bred spang up, too, an' we 
 wuz sailin' erlong pritty briefly — yes, pritty 
 briefly — wid me er little erhead an' dead sho' ob 
 winnin', I wuz jes' wunderin' which one ob his 
 las'-year coats ole Marster would gib me ter 
 marry in an' if Mistis wouldn't bake er cake, 
 when all at onc't my mule — " 
 
 99 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** Come, come," I said, *' don't make up any- 
 thing. Tell it just as it was." 
 
 The old man really looked hurt as he remarked : 
 ** I see yo' ain't fully posted on mules, 'specially 
 thurrerbred mules. Why, dey am as different 
 frum hosses as de spirit ob a bat am frum de 
 ghost ob Ophelia. Did you eber see one run 
 erway ? Now, er boss runs erway lak er gem- 
 man. He jes' gits skeered an' runs erhead. 
 He'll run ober er court-house or ennything else, 
 but he'll jes' keep on runnin'. But you jes' 
 watch er mule run erway. De fus' thing he do 
 is to turn right roun' an' throw you out. Ef he's 
 gwine north, an' de whole wurl' gwine north wid 
 him, an' he take er noshun ter run erway, he jes' 
 turn roun' an' run souf. Don't make no diff'r- 
 ence ter him whut's behin' him ; he's gwine back. 
 He lubs de past better'n ennything I ebber seed. 
 He'd ruther turn roun' an' run back into Sodom 
 an' Gomorrah dan ter go straight erhead into glory. 
 Now, when er boss runs erway he's sho' to hurt 
 hissef ; hit's very seldom he hurt ennything but 
 hissef an' de vehickle. He'll bus' his head or 
 break er leg, or skin hissef up, or do sumthin'. 
 But you jes' show me er man dat eber seed er 
 mule hurt hissef when he run erway. No, sah ! 
 Hit's de folks in de vehickle he's after ; an' he 
 allers gits 'em. He's de same way erbout kickin'. 
 Watch er boss kick you. He fus' lay back his 
 years, an' switch his tail, an' gib you fair warnin'; 
 
 lOO 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 den, if you don't git outen de way, he kick you 
 ober like a gemman. But do er mule do dat ? 
 No, sah ! When he gits ready to send you to 
 kingdum cum he puts on his most fetchin' airs. 
 You'd think kickin' de las' thing he gwinter do. 
 You needn't be oneasy when you see him switch 
 his tail an' back his years an' sorter dance up 
 an' downbehin' ; he's jes' playin' den. Detime 
 fur you ter pray am when you see him behavin' 
 hissef ; dat's de time when he means bizness. 
 When he looks love outen his eyes, an' his years 
 pints to de pure, blue sky erbove, pintin' sinners 
 to dat better Ian', den's de time fur you ter stay 
 outen his way. 
 
 " Wal, sah, dat's de way de mule done. He wuz 
 jes' forty feet frum de wire when de idee struck 
 him dat he wuz gwine de wrong way. Dey 
 wusn't nuthin' dair ter skeer him — nuthin' but er 
 straight track. 'Twas part ob de program fur 'em 
 to try an' skeer him all de way, an* de boys hed 
 stationed er cinnerman bear an' er Italian at de 
 fus' quarter, thinkin' dey'd sho' bolt an' cum 
 back. Now, er mule hates de smell ob a bear 
 like he do de thought of respecterbility, but he 
 went on by 'em like he neber seed 'em. At de 
 haf de boys had turned a cohered wagon ober — 
 'nuff to skeer a saddle an' blanket — but my mule 
 went on wid his tail up — no skeer dair ! At de 
 three-quarters dey turned some firecrackers loose, 
 an' thinks I, he'll sho' bolt now ; but dey both 
 
 lOI 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 went OQ jes -;t irv bin fed or. firecrackers all 
 dair life A: ir :.itj.-:e rlig de brass baa' got 
 in de r:.: : - ; : It :'?.:k an' rjrned loose all dair 
 horns an :-^~i : : .-.' 'Run, Nigger, Run — de 
 Patter: T :.t:ch. Ye* — nuff to turn back de debbil 
 hisse: — : _ : my mule run ober de fellow wid de 
 kitr. z i: - ". str-- T z - n de drum head an' carried 
 it cr.cf.g --e::ej . .- fis lef hin' leg ; but jes' as 
 dev zct to thirty/ feet ob de wire, wid eb'ryiiiing 
 de : e: dey tried to stop eben 
 
 dey'd S-iic ur.ie:. :r ::th cookluded dey woz 
 gv< -r :t -way, an' both ob 'em whirled. 
 
 Bu" -I le-i-ei '*:-:: r -? eat, an' dey said 
 boir. c: ^5 — ~r i± /_:.-=: .\_rr — lef de saddle 
 •bout de f " T : : r an' sailed through de air like 
 er pair : : : - ' ry buzzards on er windy day. 1 
 went _ ' : r - ; t -vire fus' : ' : r : : " :e hard 
 
 gr : _ - ~ T ^ - * ~ : - : _ :n i wuz 
 
 - :-- -- - ■- :_- : : : :- ^-- Td 
 
 e: z::..z ::. . .c_i _..; . ^-: -: - ^ - - .-:5:er 
 cum up lamn' an' i.:.: Wash, de gal's yourn, 
 yoa beat de yudder --- : - - — a close 
 shave — but you went u - t : r wire nis'. You've 
 got de bes' head fur er ra.e i " ' eed,' he said, 
 cs he felt my head ": -^e if ii -_ ::usted. An' 
 ernudder man laug r ' said, when he looked 
 at my mouth, all swelled up : * Hardly er lip, 
 C^ioiiel, fur ef he had, he'd er left de yudder 
 o^er at de las' quarter !' 
 "But 1 got de gal!" 
 
 I02 
 
 ^^ 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 THE TENNESSEE GIRL AND THE PACING 
 
 MARE. 
 
 THE Tennessee girl and the pacing mare are a 
 pair I can never separate in my thoughts. 
 When I think of the one I see the other, and when 
 I see the other I think of the one. They go to- 
 gether much better than Jonathan and David, or 
 Damon and Pythias; and they travel along life's 
 road with a great deal less friction than either 
 would go with a male companion. They are a 
 pair of females entirely bent on femininity. 
 
 The bottom may drop out of the universe ; 
 political parties may rise and fall ; hades may boil 
 out of Mount Vesuvius, and horses of the male 
 persuasion may break the records of the world, 
 but the Tennessee girl and the old mare are only 
 bent on preserving the chastity of the female race 
 as they shuffle along down a sunshiny pike to 
 carry a hank of yarn and a brace of spring 
 chickens to another pair of the same gender living 
 about three miles further on. 
 
 The girl is demure, modest and sweet. The 
 old mare is demure, modest and fleet. The girl 
 
 103 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 is shyer than a sixteen-year-old nymph clad in 
 a petticoat of sea foam, before the mirror of the 
 Olympian gods. The old mare is more timid 
 than a fawn in a herd of buffalo. The Seventh 
 Regiment Band, in full regalia, could not march 
 by the damsel with enough eclat to make her 
 peep out from under her sunbonnet long enough 
 to see the color of their uniforms ; and forty 
 thousand of them could not make the old mare 
 look around unless their martial music happened 
 to stampede the shuffling sorrel offspring ambling 
 behind her — then she'd ride over the regiment to 
 get to it. So would the girl. 
 
 But the sorrel offspring does not really belong 
 in this duo. He is looked on as a necessary evil 
 which is liable to happen in the early spring days 
 of April or May. When the hazy gleam settles 
 over the landscape in the twinkling glow of au- 
 tumn's aftermath, he goes out of their life and 
 existence. Perhaps he has grown too large ; 
 perhaps too saucy ; perhaps too much of a man 
 to be allowed the companionship of this pair who 
 worship at the shrine of Vesta and yet live in the 
 hope of one day making it uncomfortable for a 
 male man and his unregenerate offspring when 
 cleaning-up day comes round ! In the fall, then, 
 the colt will be missing. But the girl rides on and 
 says nothing ; while the old mare merely paces 
 along in a gradually increasing ratio of avoirdupois 
 till next spring. Then you may meet a trio again. 
 
 104 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 The Tennessee girl is a born rider. No silk 
 hat with half a white goose-feather adorns her 
 shapely head. No long riding skirt streams un- 
 der her horse's flanks, or flutters out behind ta 
 frighten the steeds of unsuspecting passers-by. 
 No gloves that reach to her elbows. No silver- 
 mounted English whip that abruptly stops in its 
 make-up about the place you think the whip 
 ought to begin ; no goggle glasses, hair in a 
 Psyche knot, and look a la hauteur — no ; that isn't 
 the Tennessee girl on the old mare ; that's the 
 city girl that's riding for fun. The girl we are 
 talking about never got on a horse for fun in her 
 life. 
 
 A snow-white sunbonnet with a few stray 
 curls peeping out from under. It is tied with a 
 double bow-knot under the chin and two streamers 
 play in the wind behind. A blue calico skirt 
 comes down nearly far enough to hide a pretty 
 foot that's got a good hold on a solid steel stirrup. 
 Where is the other foot, you ask ? Come, don't 
 be too inquisitive. The Tennessee girl has two ;, 
 the other, with its necessary attachment, has got 
 a grip on the pommel of the saddle — and a Co- 
 manche princess can't stick there tighter. A pair 
 of woolen mittens cover chubby hands that know 
 how to hold bridle reins — and there she goes, one 
 hundred and forty-five pounds of solid " gal " in 
 a saddle her great-grandmother rode over ** from 
 North Callina in." 
 
 105 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 The Tennessee girl is the best female rider — ahl 
 
 b^ your pardoo, rr.:r?^r--'e "t- :- ' •-'■:"- — 
 
 in fbe world. A: i_c~ 
 
 rvfing! She roll i z r ~7^on 
 
 of the old mare. S r r ~ : : : t -:- 
 
 ing thing in the sac : t : t 5. 
 
 I ever saw. She si" - " 
 flatboat on the roll : 
 ahead fike a gracefu 
 crest of a InIIow. St 
 
 fool you to death, 
 is painful for a ter r : : : ehold her ride. 
 
 : and save 
 " : ^ : and see 
 
 It 
 His 
 
 L_ . r ^ . 
 
 first thought wi 
 from filling off ; 
 fadl — a mishap n : 
 lesstfae double g 
 goes — while 
 up — following ev 
 roll of the pi : : 
 toppling iMit - 
 breaking, eas 
 in^ unaffecte: 
 EHana, pace r 
 giDop with r 
 princess of tf r 
 
 -f'T n 
 
 -I -?--•* 
 
 lieid iike a 
 
 - : "lare. 
 
 7 zi and 
 
 heaven! She c; 
 the memory of fifty 
 the same the wor' : 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 throw speed amid the sand hills of Sahara as 
 among the roses of Andalusia. She'll bring race 
 mules if bred to a jack, throw** B B" bread- 
 winners if mated with mustangs, and give us 
 world-beating Pointers when bred to her equal. 
 She carries the girls to church like a three-year- 
 old, takes the old lady to meetin' like a forty- 
 year-old, carries the old man on a nightly fox 
 hunt like Tam O'Shanter's ** Meg " with a witch 
 at her tail, and yet brings him home, when he 
 gets drunk, at daylight, as slowly and solemnly 
 as the burial of Sir John Moore. She will kill a 
 dozen mules in a plow, would make a sway-back 
 elephant ashamed of himself when she backs her 
 ears and throws herself in the collar of a stalled 
 wagon, and on general principles will pull any- 
 thing she is hitched to, from a log wagon to a 
 sucker's leg, and in her friskier moods will throw 
 anything from a race horse to a horse race ! 
 
 She eats less, works more, lives longer, says 
 less, than any animal under the sun, and springs 
 more unexpected speed from unexpected places 
 than a dozen jack-rabbits in a sedge field ! She 
 is homely in her old-fashioned ways, yet glorious 
 in her grit ! Leggy in her angularity, yet beau- 
 tiful in her strength. Solemn in her Scotch-Irish 
 honesty, yet brilliantly humorous when she takes 
 the bit and tries to pace a 2: lO clip in her old age. 
 Modest and gentle as a nun's dream of her first 
 love, yet as fiery and aggressive as a helmeted 
 
 107 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 knight in an honor quarrel. Homely she may be, 
 plain, painfully plain, and yet to me, when I 
 know what is slumbering there, she is 
 
 Moulded as trim as a gatling gun. 
 And full to the brim of it^ fire ! 
 
 Nothing can stop the Tennessee girl and the 
 old mare. Nature, recognizing their claims, keeps 
 the sun shining, the sweet birds singing, the winds 
 playing and the brooks dancing when the precious 
 pair start down the pike. Even the toll-gates — 
 brazen evidences of corporations and cruel ob- 
 structionists of freedom and unrestrained prog- 
 ress — fail to stop them. 
 
 ** Your toll, please," said the gate-keeper, as a 
 pair of them came to a halt, recently, when the 
 gate swung up. 
 
 ** But do we have to pay toll .?" asked the fair 
 rider, with a look so full of pretty injured inno- 
 cence as to make the hard-hearted collector in- 
 wardly swear he would never collect another toll 
 as long as he lived. 
 
 ** Certainly, Miss; five cents, if you please; 
 here are the regulations " — 
 
 A carriage and horses, . . . 25c 
 
 A wagon and team, .... 15c 
 
 A buggy and horse, .... loc 
 
 A man and horse, ..... 5c 
 108 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 tt 
 
 A man and a horse ! Why, we are a gal 
 and a mare," said the Tennessee girl, as she rode 
 on through, after casting a withering look on the 
 abject keeper, who was trying to skulk off and 
 hang himself. 
 
 109 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 "DICK." 
 
 HIS real name was Richard Augustus Wash- 
 ington La Fayette — that was all. He 
 ought to have had a surname, but he didn't, for 
 he was just a little darkey belonging to Major 
 Richard Augustus Robinson, one of the aristocrats 
 of Middle Tennessee, thim-odd years ago, and 
 who counted his negroes as he did his flocks — on 
 a hundred hills. According to custom, Dick's 
 surname should have been Robinson — Richard 
 Augustus Washington La Fayette Robinson — 
 only nobody had taken time to think of it, and 
 Dick was too little to think for himself. 
 
 "And as for hunting up names for my negroes, ' ' 
 remarked the Major on several occasions, " it's as 
 much as I can do to name my colts and register 
 my Shorthorns.'* 
 
 But Richard Augustus was all right. His 
 "mammy "had a literary turn of mind, and 
 when Dick was a year old she named him for her 
 master, Washington and La Fayette — " the three 
 greates' men dat eber libbed " — as she herself 
 declared ; and then, having duly notified her 
 
 lie 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 world at the " quarters," she promptly forgot all 
 about Dick and his name, too, in the more inter- 
 esting event of declaring a pair of dividends — 
 twin dividends, as it were — for the Robinson 
 plantation. These required two more names — a 
 mental task too much even for a person of her 
 well-known intellectuality, and so, unfortunately 
 for Richard Augustus Washington La Fayette, in 
 the mental disgust that followed, she boiled down 
 the greatest men in history into — Dick. 
 
 And Richard was himself on all occasions. 
 With him life was one perpetual Sunday, even 
 after he grew big enough to leave '* old Granny," 
 the wrinkled and wizardly witch of an octo- 
 genarian whose duty it was to take care of the 
 two score pickaninnies of various ages, *' at the 
 quarters," while their mothers helped out in the 
 crops. And what glorious fun Dick had, picking 
 little baskets of cotton by day, for work, hunting 
 possums by night, and breaking the colts on Sun- 
 day for religious diversion ! Chittlings, crack- 
 ling-bread, hoe-cake, 'simmon beer and bacon ! 
 These were his till there was one endless cackle 
 in his laugh, one continual ring of grease around 
 the hole in his face, one everlasting brewery in 
 his heart. He ate so much, so often and so sys- 
 tematically, that his cocoanut-protruding forehead 
 was as polished as a black ivory ball, and the 
 small spot of ebony abdomen that stuck out 
 through the slit in his one garment — a hickory 
 
 III 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 shirt that came down to his heels — looked not un- 
 like the crown of a last year's derby greased with 
 bear's grease. 
 
 Freedom ! Not much of it did Dick want. In 
 fact, I think, like the rest of his race, Dick missed 
 the idea altogether, as a great many people now- 
 adays have missed it. Dick never had studied 
 the subject much, but somehow or other, way 
 down in his little philosophical heart he had 
 learned that slaves are sometimes free, while 
 freemen are often slaves. 
 
 Ah, Dick, there are more slaves to-day than on 
 the day I first saw you, thirty-three years ago, 
 as you rode the bay filly down the long lane 
 while the twilight shadows pirouetted the cows 
 you were driving home into colossal oxen. Yes, 
 a lot more. 
 
 It is true they don't go by that name, Dick, but 
 oh, Dick, names are not even surface indicators 
 in this world. There are so many slaves in the 
 world to-day, Dick, that sometimes I hope we 
 will find the north pole and start a new republic, 
 not alone for the poor white and the poor black 
 slaves now in the world, those who have to pinch 
 and starve and toil and turn the grindstone of 
 destiny as you and yours never had it to do, 
 Dick, but also as a place where every voluntary 
 slave to passion and avarice, sin and shame, 
 may enter, and, by God's help, get another 
 start in life. For 
 
 112 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 O, the tyranny of the master, Poverty, 
 And O, the whip of the master. Sin, 
 
 And O, the hounds of Squalor and Misery, 
 And O, the driver that drives them in ! 
 
 They say that not even our greatest scholars 
 of to-day could talk in Latin or Greek, were they 
 placed back two thousand years ago in Rome or 
 Athens. And they say it is because our thoughts 
 do not come into our minds the same way — that 
 they do not originate in the same manner, and 
 hence cannot be expressed in similar construction 
 to those of the dead languages. The germ-cell 
 of the thought, so to speak, has been lost. And 
 so it was with Dick. Freedom could not enter 
 his mind because there was no brain-cell there 
 for it, and none in his ancestors before him. That 
 for which the Saxon would die was lacking in 
 Dick. Happy Dick ! He was like a blackbird 
 born in a cage ! 
 
 But if Dick didn't have his freedom bump de- 
 veloped there was one he did have, and that was 
 — love. Dick loved everybody, but he loved ** ole 
 Marster " best of all. Before he could walk well, 
 he used to watch the tall, gray-haired Major dis- 
 mount from his big, stocking-legged chestnut 
 horse when he came in from riding over the farm, 
 and as he would stalk by Dick and stop to play- 
 fully crack his riding whip at him, instead of run- 
 ning away in half-feigned terror and grinning at 
 8 113 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 the stately joker as the other darkies did, Dick 
 would crawl up to him like a frousy spaniel and 
 with his long monkey fingers he would pick the 
 cockle-burs and beggar lice from his master's leg- 
 gings, and do it with the air of a dog when its 
 owner deigns to rub its back with his foot. 
 
 As he grew older Dick was taken by the Major 
 *'to the big house " to wait on him. Then in- 
 deed was Dick's cup full. 
 
 But one day Dick's cup was fuller. It ran over. 
 At one bound he leaped into fame, and, what 
 was better for Dick — his master's heart. And 
 this is the way it happened. 
 
 Major Robinson was a noted horseman. He 
 owned, as was thought, the best in the land. 
 His neighbor, Colonel Sellers, was also a noted 
 horseman, and the Colonel was quite positive 
 that his were the best in the land. The pride of 
 each one's heart was a magnificent saddle stallion 
 — and two grander horses, in truth, could not be 
 found in a day's ride. Each could pace like a 
 pickerel and go as many saddle gaits as a rocking 
 chair on a steamboat deck. In looks — well, had 
 Rosa Bonheur seen them, there would have been 
 two more of her famous pictures in the Royal 
 Gallery. The Major's horse was a splendid 
 chestnut, as perfect as a Tennysonian poem, full 
 of thoroughbred blood from nose to heel, and 
 known as Traveler. The Colonel's was a 
 beautiful bay, as rounded as one of Johnson's 
 
 114 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 periods, equally as well bred as Traveler, and 
 known as Pilgrim. 
 
 In those days questions of superiority in saddle 
 horses were decided in the show ring. Only 
 thoroughbreds raced. With the saddler it was 
 looks and gaits. With the thoroughbred, speed. 
 
 But Dick changed all that. Bright Dick ! 
 
 These two famous horses naturally met, time 
 and again, in the show ring ; and, being so nearly 
 matched in breeding and gaits, sometimes Trav- 
 eler would be awarded first prize, and then it 
 would fall to Pilgrim. Year after year did this go 
 on, throughout the fairs of middle Tennessee, un- 
 til finally it became merely a question of who 
 were the judges, as to which would win. At first 
 the thing was humorous, but it soon became ex- 
 citingly serious ; for as everybody in Tennessee, 
 where a horse is involved, will take sides one way 
 or the other, soon all the country were Travelers 
 or Pilgrims. Small wonder they could not keep 
 still ! Tennessee has always been a battle ground 
 for something. Before the white man's foot 
 touched its soil it was the battle ground of the 
 Indians, the hunting ground of the nations. 
 Jackson made it for forty years the battle ground 
 of national politics, and Fort Donelson, Shiloh, 
 Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Mission Ridge, 
 Franklin and Nashville, these, alas, have made 
 it the battle ground of death ! 
 
 Tennesseeans love, indeed, a battle ground of 
 
 115 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 some kind. Politics suits them best ; if this fails, 
 they are delighted to battle it out among the 
 churches ; and if both fail — look out for a horse 
 race ! 
 
 And so it was in this instance — both politics and 
 religion were relegated to the background. Peo- 
 ple no longer were Whigs and Democrats; they 
 were Robinsonites and Sellersites, and instead of 
 Baptists and Methodists they became Travelers 
 and Pilgrims. Old fellows who had been at po- 
 litical outs all their lives got gloriously fraternal 
 on a platform that declared the Traveler horse 
 to be the best horse under the sun, while old 
 ladies who all their lives had slandered each 
 other *'for the love of God," became as twin 
 doves in the Pilgrim creed. From these it 
 went to politics, until the county elections 
 were fought out on that issue. Then, indeed, 
 did things become serious — families became 
 separated, lovers parted forever, husbands and 
 wives were divorced on the subject of which 
 was the better horse I In the first election the 
 Travelers captured the sheriff and county clerk — 
 they had the military strength, but the Pilgrims 
 held the coffers, for they elected the trustee and 
 the tax assessor. A revolution threatened to 
 disrupt the social fabric of the county and bloody 
 war was imminent when Dick — the little wizard 
 philosopher — settled the entire thing to his own 
 everlasting honor and the dignity of the state. 
 
 ii6 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 How he came to think of it, 1 do not know. But 
 one day that fall when things were at a crisis, when 
 Traveler had beaten Pilgrim in the show ring for 
 the fortieth time to the Pilgrim horse's thirty- 
 ninth as against Traveler, when young men were 
 fighting duels on the subject and old men were 
 calling each other names, Dick sat out in front of 
 Traveler's stall combing his own head with a 
 curry-comb, as was customary with his race. 
 Now, I do not know for certain, but I have always 
 believed it was the curry-comb that put the idea 
 in Dick's head, because I have often noticed that 
 when people want very earnestly to think of 
 something, they always scratch their heads. It 
 follows as a necessary conclusion that if there is 
 any virtue in the scratching at all, it would also 
 follow that the harder the heads were scratched 
 the brighter would be the thought result. Now 
 Dick was combing away with all his might, for 
 the kinks stuck out defiantly over his head, and 
 all will admit that the idea evolved was simply 
 brilliant. Hence the theorem, as the geometries 
 say. 
 
 " Marster, does yo' kno' Traveler kin pace 
 mighty fast?" asked Dick as Major Robinson 
 came out to see to the feeding of his horse. 
 
 The Major smiled. ''Of course I do, Dick, 
 Why?" 
 
 '* But does yo' kno' he kin pace mighty briefly 
 — mighty briefly?" repeated Dick, earnestly. 
 
 117 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** You know I do," said the Major ; " but how 
 did you find it out ? Have you been pacing this 
 horse to water ?" asked his master, a trifle 
 sternly. 
 
 **No, sah !" said Dick, in a tone of deeply 
 grieved innocence. And then he laughed. 
 
 **But Marster, ef yo'd axed me ef I'd bin 
 pacin' 'im frum water, I'd hafter tell yo' de truth. 
 Fur tuther day I rid 'im down to de crick, an' 
 when er thunderstorm cum up I had to run home 
 er git wet. I tried to make 'im run, but he 
 wouldn't, he jes' paced lak er flyin' Kildee — an' 
 he beat de shower by a good length. Wan't dat 
 pacin' frum water ?" and Dick grinned again. 
 
 The Major had to laugh, too. 
 
 " Marster," said Dick solemnly, '* 'peers to me 
 dis way ob showin' bosses in de ring ain't no 
 way to tell which am de bes'. Enny fat boss 
 kin git er prize, but it takes grit to win er race, 
 an' de boss dat ought to hab de prize am de boss 
 dat kin go — dat's got de win' an' de lim' an' de 
 bottom an' de head to stay dar. Dat's de boss 
 wuff sumpin', ain't it ?" 
 
 The Major smiled. "Yes, Dick, but why?" 
 
 Dick jumped up with intense earnestness in 
 every feature. " Marster, Marster," he shouted, 
 **jes' challenge de Pilgrim folks fur er pacin' 
 race ! Make it fo' miles — dat'll settle it, an' " — 
 lowering his voice to a confidential whisper — 
 ** yo' kno' Trabler's got de blood to stay I" 
 
 ii8 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 The Major caught at the idea in a moment. 
 Up to that time pacing races were practically un- 
 heard of in the state. The idea was novel, and, 
 certainly, as Dick said, would " settle it." With- 
 out a word he turned on his heels, went to 
 his library, and promptly challenged the 
 owner of Pilgrim to a four-mile pacing race 
 for a purse of five thousand dollars. The chal- 
 lenge was as promptly accepted by Colonel Sel- 
 lers ; and Dick— poor little Dick — 1 claim for him 
 here the honor of being the originator of pacing 
 races in Tennessee ! 
 
 It is needless to say the county was out to see 
 that race. The boy who rode Pilgrim was nearly 
 grown and quite strong, while Dick was but ten 
 years old and a midget at that. When they came 
 out on the track for the word Traveler was so 
 keen to go and so powerful withal, that, by merely 
 fighting half restlessly the bit, he jerked Dick 
 about the saddle as a cork on a billow. 
 
 ** Marster," said Dick, as he rode up to where 
 Major Robinson stood, '* I ain't 'feered of but one 
 thing. Won't you do me er favor ?" 
 
 " What is it, Dick ?" asked the Major, as he 
 caught the strong horse by the bit to see what 
 the boy wanted. 
 
 **rm 'feered 1 can't hoi' him down," said 
 Dick, ^'Vm so light. Won't you let 'em tie me 
 in de saddle .?" 
 
 The Major shook his head. *' No, no, Dick,'* 
 
 119 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 he said. " That would be cruel and treating you 
 unfairly. The horse might run away, or fall, and 
 I had rather lose the race than see you hurt. Do 
 the best you can as it is." 
 
 '* An' Vd ruther die than lose de race, Marster," 
 said Dick, determinedly. ''Tie me in, an* ef 
 ennything happens I won't blame you." 
 
 The Major reluctantly yielded to the boy's en- 
 treaties. A strong girth was passed over Dick's 
 thighs as he sat in the saddle and tightly buckled 
 around the horse ; the word was soon given and 
 they were away. 
 
 The horses paced like a team, both riders hold- 
 ing them down for fear they would break. At 
 the first mile they had become thoroughly warmed 
 to the work and were steady enough to be given 
 their heads more freely. At the second mile 
 Dick led by a length, and at the third he had 
 gotten still swifter and, owing to a break of Pil- 
 grim, he was ten good lengths ahead, and his 
 horse moving like machinery. But here the un- 
 expected happened. Dick was too light for the 
 powerful animal. Scarcely had he passed the 
 third mile going at a terrific speed, when Trav- 
 eler, taking the bit in his teeth, and having in- 
 sufficient weight at the reins, pulled Dick, saddle 
 and all, slightly forward, and then, to the horror 
 of all, the saddle turned, and the boy and the 
 saddle were seen dangling under the powerful 
 horse's belly, while his flying feet appeared likely 
 
 120 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 at any moment to end Dick's life and race at the 
 same time. And to a larger rider tied as Dick 
 was, such would have been the result. But not 
 so with wiry little Dick ; his presence of mind 
 did not forsake him. With both hands he grasped 
 the surcingle band which ran around the horse's 
 neck, dug his sharp heels into Traveler's flanks, 
 and stuck there closer than a flying squirrel under 
 an oak limb ! 
 
 And the crowd, when they saw the act and the 
 fact that the gallant horse never broke his gait, 
 cheered itself hoarse. But in an instant it stopped — 
 Traveler, riderless, had slackened his speed — 
 Pilgrim came up and passed him ; while Traveler, 
 bewildered, mechanically followed several lengths 
 behind. It was all up for the Major ! 
 
 But not so. Dick quietly waited in his perilous 
 position till he turned into the stretch, and then 
 — the crowd went wild again — for Dick, reckless 
 Dick, turned loose his whip hand, gathered a 
 firmer grip with his left, swung out his keen raw- 
 hide and made Traveler think a hundred" hornets 
 had settled on him. It was a horse race from 
 there to the wire, but Traveler had the speed and 
 went under a half length ahead. 
 
 No wonder a hundred men seized his bridle and 
 cut Dick loose from his perilous position. No won- 
 der the Major himself picked him up for joy, and, 
 while he declared ten thousand dollars could not 
 buy him, henceforth he was free ! 
 
 121 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Such was Dick as I knew him, thirty-three 
 years ago. Given his freedom, he refused to 
 leave his master and Traveler, but hung around 
 the place, caring for the horses and cows, and 
 enjoying all the affections and privileges of a 
 shepherd dog. Every morning he would mount 
 the bay filly and drive the cows to the blue grass 
 pasture. Every evening he would drive them 
 home. I can see him now, as he would ride down 
 the long lane in the twilight. How I used to envy 
 him ! — his jolly good nature, his graceful seat on 
 the restive filly, the beautiful way he had of 
 popping his long whip, and, best of all, the won- 
 derful music in his wild halloo, sounding like a 
 bugle call : 
 
 'o* 
 
 ** Time's up, time's up, 
 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Les' go h-o-m-e !" 
 
 I don't think anyone living could sing that as 
 Dick did. I did not know then where he got it, 
 but the war soon taught me. It was '' Lights 
 Out," and I wish I could put down the music too, 
 so my readers could tell exactly how Dick would 
 roll it out. But to make it complete, I would also 
 have to put down the twilight, the song of the 
 wind in the trees, the chirp of the redbird as he 
 
 122 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 went to roost, and the glow of the sunset in the 
 western sky. 
 
 Home is the most perfect word in our language. 
 It fits the mouth better, fills the lungs fuller, and 
 rolls out purer and sweeter and better than any 
 word in the English language. And how Dick 
 could make it roll ! It would start from his mouth 
 and rise and fall and swell above the treetops, 
 and float over the low hills and then come back 
 in an echo of subdued sweetness when it struck 
 the higher hills beyond. As Dick sang it there 
 was a whole orchestra in that one word — and 
 more ; it was an organ, a sermon and a prayer. 
 And he had caught the tune from a bugler — for 
 Tennessee was full of Bragg's and Rosecrans' 
 soldiers at this time ; but the words— Dick, I sup- 
 pose, had made them himself. A queer combina- 
 tion ! Apo lo's harp twanged with Mars' bow- 
 strings — but it was music. 
 
 Suddenly Dick pulled up the filly with a jerk. 
 He listened and heard firing over toward Mur- 
 freesboro. Dick knew what it meant. It was 
 Tuesday evening, December 30, the evening be- 
 fore the battle of Stone River. Dick popped his 
 whip vigorously. Then he gravely shook his 
 head. 
 
 ** Sumbody gwinter git hurt ober dar ef dey 
 don't behave deysefs. Dem's our men doin' dat 
 shootin'. Dat's ole Bragg's bark. Look out, 
 Rosey !" 
 
 123 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 He rode on a piece in silence. The firing grew 
 sharper. 
 
 ** Whut dese Yankees wanter cum down heah 
 an' take our niggers 'way frum us fur ennyway ? 
 Whut we done to dem ? All we ax 'em ter do is 
 ter let us erlone," and he galloped out to head off 
 a heifer. 
 
 Where Dick got the sentiments he expressed I 
 cannot say ; but I do know that Dick was no ex- 
 ception to his race. Darkey like, he was for his 
 home and his white people first, though the free- 
 dom of all his race lay on the other side. And 
 Dick, like every other negro, knew it, too, though 
 they worked on and said nothing. 
 
 Some day there is going to be a great monu- 
 ment put up in the South by southern people. 
 And on its top is going to be a negro — not the 
 mythical slave with chains on him and terror in 
 his face, which fool artists, who never saw a ne- 
 gro slave, and fool poets, who never heard one 
 laugh, are wont to depict — but the jolly, con- 
 tented, rollicking rascal that we knew and loved ; 
 the member of our household and sharer of our 
 joys and sorrows. On its top, I say, there is 
 going to be that kind of a negro, as he was, and 
 he is going to be represented in the act of picking 
 cotton, with a laugh, while he refuses with scorn 
 a gun with which to fight his master for his own 
 freedom. When that is done, it will be the crown- 
 ing monument of the age. 
 
 124 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 But in Dick's case it was still more remarkable, 
 for Major Robinson was what was called in Ten- 
 nessee at that time "a Union man." He was 
 one of that very numerous class in Tennessee 
 who voted as he said Andrew Jackson would 
 vote — against secession. Even after the Gulf 
 states seceded, these voted against secession and 
 carried the state by a large majority, in a test of 
 that question. Afterward, when Federal troops 
 invaded the state, the tide turned, and Tennessee 
 seceded. But Major Robinson, while he refused 
 to secede, also refused to fight his own people. 
 Avowedly for the Union, he took no part in the 
 war. 
 
 Dick rode on home rather seriously I thought, 
 for I again heard his bugle call : 
 
 ** Time's up, time's up, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Les' go h-o-m-e !" 
 
 But if Dick thought the evening skirmish was 
 going to hurt somebody if they didn't behave, he 
 had no doubt at all the next morning. For just 
 at daylight, as he expressed it, *'hell sut'n'ly 
 broke loose at Muffersburrer " — Rosecrans with 
 forty-three thousand men had advanced from 
 Nashville to strike Bragg on Stone River, and 
 utterly crush him. But Bragg had a similar in- 
 tention and struck first, at daylight, on the last 
 
 125 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 day of December, 1862. And Dick had it right; 
 genius is genius, and Dick and a great Union 
 general both used the same expression in speak- 
 ing of that battle. 
 
 All day long Dick heard the boom, boom, 
 boom of guns. For all day long Cleburne and 
 Hardee, Polk and Cheatham, Withers and Mc- 
 Cown executed one continual charging left wheel 
 and rolled Rosecrans' right wing back, back, back, 
 for four long miles, until the Federal lines were 
 doubled up on each other at right angles, like a 
 big bird with a broken wing. As wounded men 
 were brought to the rear, and filled up the farm 
 houses and yards, Dick heard them say that 
 Bragg had crushed Rosecrans, that the Federal 
 army was cut to pieces, that Shiloh was 
 avenged. 
 
 But the next day Dick heard no more guns, and 
 he learned that Rosecrans had gotten between 
 the river and the railroad embankment, and was 
 going to fight there for life, madder than a gored 
 bull. All that day Dick waited to see what was 
 going to happen. 
 
 The next day it happened. For Bragg tried to 
 double up the other wing. Then there was an- 
 other day of boom, boom, boom, until the wounded 
 were so many and the dead so thick that Dick 
 actually got used to dead men and declared that 
 he would never again be afraid to go through a 
 graveyarcj — ** fur whut is a grabeyard whar dey 
 
 126 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 am under groun' an' you can't see 'em," he said, 
 ** to a grabeyard on top de yearth whar you can't 
 walk for steppin' on 'em." 
 
 But the wing wouldn't double up. And on the 
 third day Bragg quit and marched away. Dick 
 afterward learned that Rosecrans was about to 
 march back to Nashville himself if Bragg hadn't 
 been in such a hurry, and that moved the wise 
 little Dick, in great disgust, to exclaim : ** Bragg 
 am a good dog, but Holdfas' am better !" 
 
 Bright Dick ; that was what Rosecrans himself 
 said. 
 
 About a week after the battle Dick went out 
 one evening to feed Traveler for the night. To 
 his surprise an officer in a blue uniform was stand- 
 ing in the stable door, and going into exaggerated 
 praise of the beautiful animal, which a soldier 
 held by the bit for his inspection. 
 
 "Put 'im back, gem'men," shouted Dick, as 
 he rushed up excitedly, "put 'im back ! Dat's 
 Trabler ; ole Marster don' 'low nobody ter handle 
 'im but me !" 
 
 The officer laughed. " He looks like a pretty 
 good traveler," he said, " and that's what I want 
 with him." 
 
 " But you can't git dat boss, sah," expostulated 
 Dick. "He ain't fur sale." 
 
 " We don't want to buy him," said the soldier 
 who was holding the bit. " In war time we take 
 what we want." 
 
 127 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Dick waited to hear no more. He vanished. 
 
 In a few minutes he came back with Major 
 Robinson. 
 
 The Major was astounded. He expostulated ; 
 the soldiers were determined. He explained his 
 position, offered them other horses, and demanded 
 protection. It was of no avail. Then the Major 
 grew commanding and ordered them back. The 
 officer lost his temper and foolishly drew his re- 
 volver. Foolishly, I say, for to a man of Major 
 Robinson's ideas of life and death and honor he 
 simply invited a tragedy — and it came. The 
 Major was an old duelist, dead game and a deader 
 shot, and before Dick recovered his senses he 
 heard five or six shots follow each other, some in 
 and some out of the stable door. 
 
 When the smoke died away, an officer lay 
 dead, a soldier dying, and Dick was holding 
 Traveler's bit with one hand, the stirrup with the 
 other, and begging his master to fly. 
 
 " Go ! Marster, go 1" he begged. '* Don't yo* 
 heah de udder soldiers cumin' ? Dey will kill 
 yo' ef dey ketch yo' heah ; but dey'll nurver 
 ketch yo' on dis boss." 
 
 The Major hesitated : "You saw them, Dick," 
 he said, half sorrowfully. ''They were stealing 
 my horse, and drew to kill me. No, I'll not run 
 for defending my property and my life." 
 
 A sound of galloping hoofs came up the pike. 
 A squad of Federal cavalry dashed in the front 
 
 128 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 gate. Dick thrust his master's foot in the stirrup 
 and half pushed him into the saddle. The Major 
 was convinced he had better flee, at least until 
 he could come back and be sure of an impartial 
 trial, and as Dick turned loose the bit he gave 
 the spirited animal a blow which made him bound 
 away through a side gate ; ** Take care of your 
 mistress, Dick," was all the Major could call 
 back before he was gone. 
 
 Dick picked up the pistol his master had thrown 
 down. A squad of soldiers rushed around the house 
 to the stable. They took in the scene at a glance. 
 
 ** Who did this ?" shouted one to Dick. 
 
 Dick listened. He could still hear Traveler's 
 feet up the pike. His master might yet be headed 
 off and captured if he answered. 
 
 " Who did this ?" thundered the soldier again, 
 while several of them cocked their pieces. 
 
 Dick listened again. He could still hear the 
 horse's feet. An idea flashed into his mind. It 
 meant death to him, he knew, but what cared 
 Dick if it saved " ole Marster "? 
 
 He turned his head .lOwly and looked the sol- 
 diers in the eye. 
 
 And the eyes that looked so calmly into the 
 muzzles of their guns were no longer those of a 
 little negro slave — they were twin stars that lit 
 the lamps of Heaven, while the Recording Angel 
 wrote something grand opposite Dick's poor little 
 slave name. 
 
 9 129 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 " Heah's whut dun it," he said, as he held out 
 the pistol, still warm — '*dey wuz stealin' Mars- 
 ter's hoss, an' I " — 
 
 A volley followed instantly. 
 
 " I guess we've got the imp," said a soldier 
 grimly as he watched the motionless figure now 
 lying in the stall door between the two blue uni- 
 forms. 
 
 But suddenly the pinched figure rose on its el- 
 bows and listened. The sound of flying hoofs 
 could no longer be heard ; a smile of exquisite 
 satisfaction stole over the grimy face, and de- 
 fiantly there came back : 
 
 " Yes, you got me. But you'll nurver git ole 
 Marster on dat hoss !" 
 
 And then, as consciousness forsook him and 
 the dark closed 'round, he must have thought it 
 was twilight and that he was on the bay filly 
 driving the cows home, for the soldiers heard, 
 low and soft as their own bugle notes — ■' 
 
 '* Time's up, time's up, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Childun an'-ah, 
 Les' go h-o-m-e I" 
 
 And Dick's light was out. 
 
 130 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 NORA. 
 
 NORA came out of the big farm gate and 
 strolled over where the glad wild roses 
 grew by the fence and hung, cornelian wreathed, 
 on walls of green. And her own face rivaled the 
 roses and her eyes were brighter than the thrush's 
 that sat, half-startled, in her rose leaf home in 
 the hedge. And her hair hung down in golden 
 plaits, like the last two rays of sunset on the 
 twilighted west. 
 
 Nora was ever beautiful ; but this evening she 
 was divine — because she had tasted the divinity 
 of love. 
 
 And Nora knew she was in love. She knew it 
 because she was truthful and true and she told 
 the truth to all people ; but to herself she was 
 truer yet, and dared not even to deceive herself 
 in so small a thing as a false wish. 
 
 ** For false wishes," she said, ** are false chil- 
 dren, and they grow up to scoff and scorn the 
 parent heart that idly made them." 
 
 And Nora knew she was in love, because life 
 now was so different from what it was before. 
 
 131 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Besides, were not all other things in love ? The 
 roses — did they not bloom each morning with the 
 love-light in their eyes ? Had not the thrushes 
 mated and gone to housekeeping ? Life — it was 
 so different now. The wind, it never blew, but 
 frolicked ; the rain, 'twas but the clouds sprinkling 
 the grass and the flowers. Her household duties 
 were not tasks, but pleasures, and the night never 
 came now — only the stars to wink at her in silent 
 happiness and bless her in their sweet, breathing 
 light ! 
 
 Nora knew she was in love. 
 
 ** How grand a thing it is to be in love," she 
 caught herself saying to her heart, and blushed 
 at the thought of it. And then, to hide her 
 sweet embarrassment, she plucked two yearn- 
 ing roses and fancifully she held one up to each 
 cheek to wed their crimson cousins there. " How 
 grand it is ! How it lifts one up above the com- 
 mon things, to the sweet region of that other 
 world where each bright star is hope, and every 
 crescent moon hangs over the harvest field of 
 love ! O, love, love, to change m.e in so short 
 a while ! The school girl to the maiden — the 
 maiden to — to — to his angel " — she laughed and 
 stammered — '' for has he not himself a thousand 
 times told me ? O," she said aloud, with a little 
 surprised gesture, as if she had just thought of 
 something wonderful, something no one had ever 
 thought of before, " O, if being in love makes 
 
 132 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 one so different, so well satisfied with life and 
 glad to be alive, why did not God make us in love 
 first and keep us ever so ?" 
 
 '* He did me/' said a voice behind her, and the 
 roses on the hedge were pale compared with those 
 that rushed to Nora's cheeks. 
 
 ** How could you, Tom ?" the girl laughed as 
 she pelted him with roses. *' How silly of me to 
 talk out loud 1" she added. 
 
 ** How could I love you .<*" he asked seriously — 
 not noticing that she was trying to turn his ques- 
 tion into fun. ** Don't ask me, Nora — God must 
 answer that. I thought you asked why God did 
 not make us in love at first and keep us ever so, 
 and I told you that he did — at least — me," and 
 Tom looked straight into her honest eyes. 
 
 But Nora's eyes were no longer laughing. 
 They were very serious and solemn. Her face, 
 too, had lost its playful smile as quickly as it had 
 its scarlet hue, and now it was white — whiter than 
 any of the white roses. There was something 
 in Tom's voice and look that Nora had never seen 
 before — a manliness, a strength, an independence. 
 He was passive and quiet, but Nora saw he was 
 stronger now than he was the day he tossed the 
 hay the highest on the rick, for fun and a wager, 
 more resolved and powerful than when he seized 
 and held the rearing, stubborn, untamed colt. 
 
 " O, Tom !" she said, as she saw for the first 
 time that Tom, too, loved her. *' I — *' 
 
 133 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** Listen, Nora," said Tom quietly. ** Have I 
 not always loved you ? Way back when we 
 toddled together — neighbor farmers* children — 
 school days — every day — all day — all the time — 
 now ? If love is happiness, then am I a god. if 
 it is wealth, then I am rich indeed. For it I am 
 thankful — thankful that I have known you — 
 thankful that I loved you — love you now and 
 always will. Although I know, " he said, without 
 moving his eyes from her face, ''that you will 
 soon wed another — " 
 
 The red roses came again. '*0, Tom, 
 please don't — " half deprecatingly, half sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 " No, Nora, let me talk now. Hereafter my 
 lips are sealed. Go the way of your heart — 
 marry him. But I ? I will still love you. I did not 
 create my love. 1 did not make it, neither can I 
 destroy it. I will be better for it, truer, a nobler 
 man, I hope. I am happy and yet miserable. 
 Happy when I think of you and miserable when 
 I think you are another's. But even in that 
 thought I am happy because of my love for you. 
 I can find no comfort save in one thought, and that 
 came to me the other night as I sat thinking of 
 you — your wedding day next week,*' he said. 
 '* And I made this myself because I was so 
 wretched and I wanted something to live by after 
 you are married. I must ever love you, ever 
 worship you, for 
 
 134 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Love is a star, 
 To be worshiped afar, 
 And, like it, should be above us/' 
 
 ** O, Tom," said Nora, sadly, for her heart 
 ached for him, " man's love is different from ours. 
 You will think differently — " but she was too 
 honest to say more — even too honest to try to 
 detain him as she saw him walk sadly away. 
 
 ** Our love should be above us," Nora said to 
 herself as she sorrowfully watched him go down 
 the road. ** Ah, Tom is right — mine is above me ; 
 so brilliant and grand and bright and — and — I 
 love him so ! But Tom — poor Tom," she said as 
 she went in at the gate, for the twilight had 
 come, and her father had lighted his pipe and 
 the far-off aroma of tobacco smoke filled the cool 
 evening air. 
 
 II. 
 
 "I cannot be with you to-night, Nora," was 
 the way the note read which her father brought 
 her from town. '* I am more than busy on an 
 important case to be tried to-morrow. I have 
 studied up on it for twelve months — it will be all 
 over in a few days, and then for my Nora and the 
 other roses at the old farm. I am busy now — so 
 busy. But in the midst of all my work, do you 
 know how often I think of you and that I even 
 take time to wonder why I love you so ? It is 
 
 135 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 not your purity, sweetness, goodness, truthful- 
 ness alone — but something that tells me you are 
 so above me, like a star which no man has ever 
 seen before." 
 
 **It will be all over in a few days/' said the 
 letter. Alas, how true. For the bright mind 
 went out that night — a string in the fine organ- 
 ism of his high-strung soul snapped under the 
 long work and tension, and the wedding was post- 
 poned forever. 
 
 :{: ^jc jfC ^ i*; :4= ^ 
 
 Nora did not know how many years had gone 
 by, but one June day she came out of the big farm 
 gate and strolled over, as she had years before, 
 where the same roses grew on the old stone fence 
 and hung just as beautifully around the walls. 
 And the same love was in her eyes, but it was a 
 sweet, sad love. The roses were red as ever, but 
 her cheeks rivaled them no longer. She pulled 
 the roses as of yore, and they thought the night 
 dew had fallen on them when she raised them to 
 her cheeks. She looked up to heaven and the 
 tears stood in her eyes. " Years ago," she said, 
 *M stood here. I was happy — so happy. To-day, 
 thank God, I am happier, far happier. Then, my 
 love was of earth. Now, it is of heaven. Then, 
 he was a mortal. Now, he is a god." 
 
 She looked across the meadow to Tom's home, 
 where his children were playing in the yard, 
 while the happy father was bustling around. A 
 
 136 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 faint beam of pleasure, that Tom was happy, 
 came over her face, and she said : 
 
 '* Ah, Tom, now you know that man's love is 
 not like woman's : 
 
 Love is a star, 
 To be worshiped afar. 
 And, like it, should be above us. 
 
 *' Yes, above us — above us," she whispered 
 through her tears, as she looked up once more 
 to the stars which were just beginning to come 
 out one by one, and then she went silently in at 
 the little gate. 
 
 And again the aroma of tobacco smoke floated 
 out in the still evening air. 
 
 137 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 THE SPELLING MATCH AT BIG SANDY. 
 
 OLD WASH came in the other night with his 
 head tied up, three inches of sticking 
 piaster under his left eye, and a cheese-cloth 
 containing a freshly-cut chicken gizzard bound 
 under the other one. 
 
 ** Boss, does yo' happen ter hab er bottle uv 
 arniker handy ?" he said, as he felt of his head to 
 see that his bandages were still on. 
 
 ''What in the world is the matter with you, 
 old man ?" I asked. ** Any camp-meeting or 
 revival going on over about Indian Springs ?" 
 
 " Wusser'n dat !" — mournfully. 
 
 '* What ! You don't mean to say the election 
 for deacon is still going on ?" 
 
 "Boss," solemnly, "hit's wusser'n 'lection, 
 camp-meetin' reviler, lynchin' er enything else. 
 We dun had er spellin' match ober our way " — 
 and he jerked out his left leg energetically — " an' 
 ef eber I gets my ban's on dat little merlatter up- 
 start ob er skule teecher, Ebernezer Johnsing, 
 he'll think de Angel Gabriel done blowed his 
 trumpet in his lef year. 
 
 138 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 *' You see," he said, as he wiped his mouth on 
 the back of his hand, after I had given him a 
 glass of Lincoln County, made in 1878, to ease 
 his misery, **dar hes bin er pow'ful wak'nin' on 
 egucashunal questions sence dey 'lected me skule 
 commisshuner ober dar. We 'lected Ebernezer 
 Johnsing es teecher, an' at de fus' meetin' ob de 
 boa'd, sez I : * Johnsing, how am de bes' way 
 ter wak'n dis degenerit race ob vipers up on de 
 impo'tance ob eguchashun ? Tm skule commis- 
 shuner heah now, an' sumpin's gotter be dun — 
 dis yer race shan't grow up in ig'rance an' de- 
 pravity 'roun' me.' 
 
 ** 'Daram jes' twot'ings needed, 'sez Johnsing. 
 'We need plenty uv good secon'-growth hick'ry 
 an' now an' den er spellin' match,' an' den he 
 'splains whut er spellin' match wuz. I kno'd I 
 wuz er good speller, an' dey cudden't bust my 
 influence es commisshuner on dat line, an' I jes' 
 went right in fer it. I got er good egucashun 
 right arter de wah, fer I went ter skule fer six 
 mon's ter er lady frum Bosting, dat b'longed to de 
 ' Sassiety fur Egucatin' de Nigger,' an' I took 
 mine early an' deep. I wuz jes' spilin' ter show 
 dem niggers how er skule commisshuner orter 
 spell, ennyway, an' de naixt Sund'y Pawson 
 Shadrack Meeshack Phillips read out at de end ob 
 de sarvice : 
 
 *' * Dar will be er highly amusin' an' instructive 
 entertainment at Big Sandy skule house naixt 
 
 139 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Friday night fur de risin' gen'rashun an' de organ 
 fun'. All am invited to precipitate.' 
 
 '* Wal, I went ober an' tuck all de fambly. 
 Dar wuz er big crowd, an' de gals an' boys wuz 
 gwinter end up wid er dance an' er candy pullin'. 
 It wuz pow'ful hot, but dey would b'ild er big 
 fiah in de skule stove an' put on er big pot er 
 sorghum fer candy stew. 
 
 " 'Skuse me, Boss !" — with an expression of 
 intense pain — " but de misery in dis eye am 
 'tickler 'xcruciatin' jes' now. Ernudder drap 
 outen dat bottle, ef yer please. 
 
 '* Wal, I 'spected, ob co'se, ter be de one ter 
 gib out de words, but dat Johnsing nigger tuck 
 me off an' demanded ter be erlowed to gib out 
 de words hissef, ' by virtue ob de persishun he 
 helt,' he sed. * It's not bekase I can't spell all de 
 words in de book, Brudder Washington,' he say, 
 'but sumtimes I gits er little confused an' can't 
 git up de flow ob language necessary ter express 
 'em, an' ef I happen ter miss er dozen er two 
 words, sum nigger, not understandin' 'bout 
 my lack uv expressive language, might say I 
 cudden't spell an' spile my influence es erteacher 
 in de community.' I seed de p'int, an' 'lowed 
 him ter gib out de words. Dey 'lected me cap'n 
 ob one side an' Brudder Moses Armstrong cap'n 
 ob de yudder. We chused sides an* stood on er 
 plank in de floor op'sit one ernudder. Now, de 
 lumber wuz green when hit wuz put down fur 
 
 140 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 floorin' an* hed shrunk, an' dar wuz big cracks 
 wid ebry plank. 'Sides dat, er dozen good big 
 shoats hed gone up under de skule house, w'ich 
 wuz on de slant ob de hill, an' dey hed crawled 
 es fur es dey could, an' squeezed deyselves 
 erginst de groun' an' de flo' an' gone ter roost. 
 Dem wuz all little t'ings, but I've noticed in dis 
 life dat it am de little t'ings dat happen ebry day 
 dat turns de tide at las'. Wal, Johnsing 'lowed 
 he b'leebed in objec' teachin', an' wanted us ter 
 fus' spell de t'ings layin' 'round handy. An' 
 he picked up er bottle an' he sez to Moses Arm- 
 strong : 
 
 *** Spell dis.' 
 
 *' M — n — k ink, s — t — a — n stan, inkstan',' 
 sez Moses. 
 
 '* * Right,' sez Johnsing, an' he picks up a cheer 
 an' sez ter ernudder, 'Spell dis,' an' de yudder 
 spell his right erlong : 
 
 *' * C — h — double e — r, cheer.' 
 
 ** * Right,' sez Johnsing. 
 
 ** An' den he looked at me an' pick up er little 
 sharp stick dat he used ter p'int out sums on de 
 boa'd wid, an' he say : 
 
 ** ' Brudder Washin'ton, spell dis.' 
 
 ** * P — i — n — t pint, e — r er, pinter,' sez I. 
 
 *** Dat's wrong,' he say. 'Next, spell hit.' 
 An' er little nigger on de yudder side, not ten 
 yeahs ole, an' in his shut-tail, jumps up quickly 
 an' say : 
 
 141 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ( ( < 
 
 P — — i — n — t point, e — r er, pointer.' 
 
 ** * Right/ sez Johnsing ; Brudder Washington, 
 yo' will please sit down, sah. You am trapped/ 
 
 *'* Trapped, de debbil,' sez I, gettin' hot. 
 *Yo' tell me I can't spell pinter — Hal P'inter ? 
 Ain't I dun rub him off er hun'red times ? Ain't 
 I dun gone all ober de Gran' Circus wid Marse 
 Ed Geers ? Didn't we hab our pict'res tuck at 
 Clebeland togedder — an' me er skule commis- 
 shuner an' can't spell de boss I raised ? Yo' try 
 ter disgrace me heah wid dat little stick befo' 
 dis community dat thou't I knowedsumpin' 'bout 
 er boss ? Yer blossom frum offen er yaller dog- 
 fennel,' sez I, * I'm ready ter wipe de flo' wid yo',' 
 an' I peeled erway at 'im wid my fis'. 
 
 '* Boss," said the old man, solemnly, " 1 don't 
 kno" how hit happened, but dey say dat sum ob 
 de gals, 'spectin' er fight, made er break ter git 
 out an' knocked ober de pot ob b'ilin' candy, an* 
 hit poured t'rough de flo' on de hogs sleepin' be- 
 low. Nacherly dez riz es one hog, an' es dey 
 wuz es fur under de house es dey cud go, w'en 
 dey tried ter scrouge under furder ter git outen de 
 way sumpin hed ter bus', an' dat wuz de plank 
 we all wuz on. All 1 kno' is de flo' seemed ter 
 heave up an' I hit de ceilin' 'long wid er dozen 
 or mo' pettycoats an' striped stockin's. Some 
 fool nigger hollered — 
 
 ** * Yarthquake ! yarthquake ! Dinnermite ! 
 dinnermite !* an' when I hit de flo' ergin I made 
 
 142 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 er leap fer de winder, t'inkin' hit wuz up. But 
 hit wuzn't, an' I went on t'rough, carryin' de 
 sash on my neck, wid my haid sticken' outen er 
 six-by-eight pane. I muster galloped two mile 
 down de pike befo' I cum to and seed whut er 
 collar I hed on. 
 
 "But look yere, Boss" — pulling a bandage 
 down under his eye — **doncher kno' no winder 
 glass didn't git me dis black eye ? An' look 
 yere, too " — feeling a bump as big as a goose egg 
 on the side of his head — '' doncher kno' I didn't 
 git dat gallopin' down de road ? Dat Johnsing 
 fotch me two licks jes' erbout de time de flo' riz, 
 an' de fus' time I ketch 'im on de pike by hissef 
 I'm gwinter teach 'im how ter spell P'inter er re- 
 sign my office," and the old man went out to kill 
 a fresh chicken to poultice his head. 
 
 143 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 HOW ROBERT J. BROKE THE RECORD. 
 
 LAST week I took old Wash up to Terre Haute 
 to see Robert J. go against the world's 
 record. He was turned loose with Billy Fitz- 
 gerald, Ed Geers' Tennessee cook, and I saw no 
 more of the old man till he came in Saturday night 
 in a semi-comatose condition and proceeded to tell 
 us how Robert J. broke the record : 
 
 ** Marse Ed cum out on de track wid dat ornery- 
 lookin' little pacer. Yer wouldn't gib fifty dollars 
 er dat hoss, boss, ef you'd er seed 'im in de stall, 
 he's dat no-'count-lookin' an' sprung-kneed an* 
 cat-hammed. But on de track you'd gib fifty 
 t'ousan' fer de shake ob hees tail an' t'ank Gord 
 far de prib'lege ob seein' 'im shake it. I've heurd 
 ob de transfo'mashun ob de prophet, but he ain't 
 in it wid Robert J. Marse Ed sot quiet lak an' 
 onconsarned, but de white folks clap dair ban's 
 an' holler w'en he jog by. Marse Ed nod hees 
 haid, same ester say, 'Much 'bleeged ter yer 
 all, but dis yer am my busy day,' an' he jog on 
 'round. Torectly, de big white man dat sot in 
 
 144 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 de roun' box an' wave de red flag at de bosses 
 an' talk sassy to de drivers ef dey don't score 
 down right, he got up an' say, ' Stop er moment, 
 Mistah Geers,' an' Marse Ed he stop. Den de 
 boss man turn 'roun' to de big stan' whar all de 
 white folks sot, an' he say : * Ladies an' gen'el- 
 mans, Robert J., de great pacer frum Tennessee, 
 driven by de onliest Edward Geers, will now go 
 ergin de wurl' record ob two, two an' er half. I 
 beg yer ter keep quiet twell de record am 
 busted." 
 
 ** Come ! come ! You know he didn't say 
 Tennessee horse. Robert J. was bred in Penn- 
 sylvania," I interrupted. 
 
 ** Boss, I'm tellin' yer whut I heurd myse'f. 
 Ef yo' wantster make er pome outen et, incou'se 
 yo' kin 'range de fac's ter suit youse'f. I wuz 
 dar an' heurd 'im say et." 
 
 **Well, goon." 
 
 " De people all clap dair ban's, an' boorayed 
 ergin, an' Marse Ed jogged on back up de stretch, 
 lookin' lak he jes' gwine ter mill fer er bushel er 
 meal an' 'lowed ter git back 'long tow'ds sun- 
 down. But fus' t'ing I knowed I heurd er kinder 
 patter-patter, patter-patter, patter-patter, an' den 
 er kinder bipperty-bip, bipperty-bip, bipperty-bip, 
 an' I look up an' heah cum dat little ole pacer, 
 jes* er flyin', wid er runnin' boss in er sulky by 
 he side, an' er doin' all he c'ud ter keep up. I 
 grab er white man by me an' say : 
 lo 145 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 *' *Mistah, don't dat man cum widhees grist in er 
 hurry ? ' But de man punch ernudder man standin' 
 by Mm, an* say : 
 
 ** * Ven did dis coon coom outen de 'sylum ?' 
 
 ** But I wuz lookin' at dat Robert J. an' de 
 w-a-y he did fly ! Down de track he went, 
 turnin' de corner lak er skeered cat goin' 'roun' 
 de kitchen chimbly wid de yard dog arter 'im. 
 But Marse Ed nebber move er muscle ner bat er 
 eye. He jes' sot dar silen' es death in er country 
 chu'ch yard, an' still es de bronze angel on er 
 deacon's tomb. He look lak de speerit ob '76 on 
 wheels an' 'termined es er ole maid when she 
 make up her min' ter marry de Mefodis' preacher 
 wid ten mudderless chilluns. An' fo' goodness, 
 Boss, I cudden' see Robert J. 'tall ! All I seed 
 wuz 'is shadder on de whitewashed fence be- 
 yond, an' dat scudded erlong lak er March cloud 
 flyin' ercrost de sun's face. At de fus' quarter 
 I heurd sumpin' sorter shettin' wid er snap, 
 bang, an' I looked up in some pigeon-holes in 
 de timer's stan', an' dar wuz hung out 30^, 
 an' eb'rybody wuz hollerin' an' — an' Robert J. 
 still er flyin' ! 
 
 *' 'Great scotts ! how he climbs dat hill,' sed 
 er man by me. De onliest hill I seed wuz er hill 
 erbout fo' mile erway, on de yudder side de 
 Warbash ribber, an' I look ober dar 'spectin' ter 
 see Robert J. gwine up dar, sulky an' all, fer I 
 could er b'lieved ennything 'bout 'im now arter 
 
 146 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 seein' 'im go dat fus' quartah, but I didn't see no 
 Robert J. ober dar, an' I say ter de man : 
 
 ** * Mistah, what hill dat you talkin' 'bout ?' an* 
 he stare at me mad-lak, an' say : 
 
 " * Ef yer don't stop trompin' on my toes an* 
 quit breathin' yo* bref in my face, I'll make er 
 dead nigger outen yer !' 
 
 'Mseed dat man wuzn't social 'tall, an' I let 
 'im erlone. But I heurd ernudder snap bang in 
 de pigeon-holes, an' I look ergin an' dar wuz 
 hung out i:oo^, an' de folks all stan'in' on dair 
 haids an' hollerin' — an' Robert J. still erflyin' ! 
 
 ** Roun* de third quartah he cum, wid de run- 
 ner an' 'im nose an' nose, lak er team, an' yer 
 couldn' tell which wuz which 'cept de runner's 
 haid kep* bobbin' up an' down an' 'is driver er 
 whippin' an' er slashin' while Robert J.'s nose 
 nebber moved up ner down er inch, an' Marse 
 Ed settin* dar lak er statoo uv er Greek god on 
 er charyut. Snap ! bang ! 1:30^ dey hung out, 
 an* den sech er shout esdey sent up — an' Robert 
 J. still erflyin' ! 
 
 ** Dey didn' wanter stop hollerin', an de boss 
 man got up an' beg 'em an' beg 'em an' wave 
 hees han*s, an' shouted fer quiet, an' de folks in 
 de fus* row dey all stan' up an' look back at dem 
 behin' an* say sh-h-h ! sh-h-h-h ! sh-h-h-h-h ! an' 
 de gran' stan* stop so still yo' could'er heurd er 
 pin drap in de middle ob de naixt century — an' 
 Robert J. still erflyin' ! 
 
 147 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 'O 
 
 " He turn de cohner. De angels played on er 
 harp ob er thousan' strings in my years, an' I 
 thought I wuz in ernudder wurl' ! I fohgot whar 
 I wuz. 'Reared lak 'twuz me in de sulky, an' I 
 grab er pair er spike coat-tails b'longin' ter er 
 dude in front cb me, fer reins, an' wid bofe eyes 
 on dat tlyin' hoss I commenced ter cluck myse'f. 
 De win' roared in my years es I flew erlong ; de 
 fence 'roun' de track look lak er whitewashed 
 string hung in de air, an' de track itse'f 'peared to 
 be er toboggan slide down de highes' peak ob de 
 Alps, an' de sulky wuz gwine down et, pulled by 
 flyin' eagles an' mounting deers ! 'Twas sweet- 
 er'n de angels in dair glory ! Bipperty-bip ! bip- 
 perty-bip ! bipperty-bip! cum dat yer runner! 
 Click-klock ! click-klock ! click-klock cum dat 
 sweet 'ittle pacer. Snap, bang ! 2:oi>^ wentde 
 timer's box, an' I turn two summersets, shouted 
 'glory halleluyer !' busted inter ten thousan' 
 pieces, an' went home ter glory ! 
 
 ** When 1 cum to I wuz huggin' er trottin'-bred 
 nigger frum Indiana, an' singin' : 
 
 Hark frum de tomb, yer trottin' coon — 
 
 We've sot ver er record yer won't bust soon !" 
 
 148 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 HOW OLD WASH SOLD THE FILLY. 
 
 OLD WASH paced into my study the other 
 day the most woe-begone darkey in Ten- 
 nessee. There was a halt in his walk, a creak 
 in his step and a crick in his neck. 
 
 ** Boss/' he said, as I motioned him to sit down 
 on the black mohair stool in the corner till I fin- 
 ished writing, **de ole man bin mighty mizrified 
 fur er week er mo'. Hes yo' got enything 
 layin' 'roun' loose dat would he'p 'im ter git er 
 move on hissef ? Enny kind er — " 
 
 The rest of the sentence was cut off by yelps 
 and snarls, mingled with many imprecations, and 
 rapid rising from the stool on the part of him who 
 a few minutes before could scarcely walk. I had 
 forgotten to tell the old man the stool was already 
 occupied by my ill-natured black-and-tan terrier, 
 who thought she had a pre-empted right to that 
 particular piece of furniture. 
 
 **rm afraid that's all I've got lying around 
 loose to-day, Wash," I said, as the old man stood 
 rubbing the seat of his trousers and eyeing with 
 
 149 
 
^ongs ana ^i:r:es 
 
 J - , . . . - - 
 
 
 into :ne -?.:. z::::z: :: :.:s z:\:z-::-.:i r::-;e A - 
 bert a-: ::rv. ::::;-. :, -—.zzi r.ire:, 
 
 "D:c5 ;.•;' :c::.-.:r :- -'■ r.z s-:, as ne 
 are : _: a paper. 
 
 ' O es I said ; " that's the horse paper of 
 December, 1892." 
 
 ' ' Den jes' read at dis place," he said, pointing 
 at a paragraph with the air of a lawyer who is 
 about to entice a witness into a trap he had set 
 for him. I read it aloud, it was tiie dosing par- 
 agraph of my editorial on the atuation for 1892 : 
 
 " ' On the whole, thou^ the season of 1892 has 
 not been as promising as it should have been, 
 owing to several bad failures, there is now no 
 doubt we have rassed through the worst of the 
 hari :.~rf ; -lay confidently expect to see 
 t e :: e : f : r :: : year. A good time to stay 
 in a : _ 5 r i f 5 z :::ers are going out.' 
 
 ' vVcjj, V. - \ : : : : ii ? " I asked. 
 
 **0. nijf: V fa : the old man, a little iron- 
 i:a :a a : N nin' fall, 'cept dat little 
 
 verse - - '; ;^ :_ ar nie, dat's all !" 
 
 **Why, hows that? asked in astonish- 
 
 r:ent. 
 
 150 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 **Wal, sah," said the old man, "hits jes' dis 
 way : Does yo' kno' my Red Pilot filly ? Ten 
 pacin' crosses widout er single break ! Fust dam 
 by—" 
 
 ** Never mind," I cried — for I hated to hear 
 him start on an endless pedigree — "what about 
 her ? I know all about her ; go on." 
 
 The old man looked sorrowfully into the fire. 
 
 "She'd er bin sumbuddy else's 'cept fur dat 
 profercy. She'd er bin sumbuddy else's darlin' 
 but fur de brilliant prophet dat knowed more den 
 de Almighty 'bout whut de naixt yeah wuz 
 gwinter bring forth ! But fur readin' dat an' 
 bleevin' it," he said, "I'd er sold dat filly wid 
 her ten pacin' crosses fur three hundred dollars — 
 thirty dollars er cross ! Grate heaben, whut er 
 fool I wuz ! I hed dat offered fur her, but whut 
 did I do when I read dat ? Sot back an' axed 
 five hundred dollars fur her ! Sold my hog meat 
 ter buy her cohn an' oats an' wait fur de millen- 
 nium ob ateen-ninety-three ter cum dat de hoss- 
 prophet sed wuz cumin' 1" 
 
 " And did it come ?" I asked. The old man 
 looked at me almost pitifully. Instead of reply- 
 ing he drew out another paper. This was dated 
 December, 1893, and the paragraph he had 
 singled out was also mine : 
 
 "Taken as a whole this has been the worst year 
 for the sale of harness horses that has been 
 known for a long time. It seems the boom has 
 
 151 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 'o 
 
 collapsed, but it is also piain that every fictitious 
 element has been eliminated and next year will 
 see the business once more on a solid foundation. 
 Don't sell your pacers r.: •. — you will be sorry." 
 
 " An' I wiiz sorry, sah ; sorry 1 didn't sell, too," 
 he said *' O, ef er certain hoss prophet I kno'," 
 he said, looking at me innocently, " hed libbedin 
 de time ob Noah, dey wouldn't er hed no use fur 
 Jeremiah, Izear an' de whale datswallered Joner. 
 Relyin' on dat blessed promis," he *I 
 
 most 'pintedly 'fused one hundred an' nrty dol- 
 lars fur dat filly, sot back on my dignerty, an* 
 waited fur de star ter rise in de east. An' did it 
 cum ter pass ? No, sah, 'sted ob dat de filly 
 went ter grass — ^an' when dat gib out she cum 
 might>" nigh goin' ter de bone yard. But long 
 f wards de winter ob dat rocky yeah, er feller 
 cum erlong an' sed he'd gib me fifty dollars fur 
 her ruther den see her starve. So de naixt day 
 1 put de halter on 'er an' focht 'er in ter turn *er 
 ober ter de buyer. But when I got ter town I 
 foun' my hoss paper in ie r istoffis' an' de w^rds 
 ob de prophet wuz in it clear es er crystal bell. 
 Heah it am," he said, as he thrust another paper 
 at me. I blushed slightly as 1 read : 
 
 ** * The season of 1894 has gone, and though it 
 has been full of trials and tribulations, low prices, 
 hard times, financial panics, and bursted banks, 
 the recent sale of horses in Ohio, New York and 
 other states confirms the now almost universal 
 
 152 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 belief that the year 1895 will find the horse busi- 
 ness once more on hand and doing better than 
 ever. This is positively affirmed by the fact that 
 many mushroom breeders have sold out and quit. 
 The supply is necessarily nearly exhausted, es- 
 pecially for pacers, and he who can hold till 1895 
 will reap a fortune." 
 
 *'Dat settled it wid me,*' said the old man. 
 **I tuck de filly back home, stopped de chillun frum 
 skule, sold de 'possum dog, lied erbout my taxes, 
 shetoff de missionery fund fer de church, closed 
 down on de preacher, an' spent de money in 
 forty-cent oats an' fifty-cent cohn to stuff hit 
 erway in dat filly fur de cummin' ob de angel ! 
 But he passed my house by. Yo' kno' what dis 
 yeah has bin," said he. ** Ef de yudder yeahs 
 hes bin rocky, dis yeah hes been ashy. Ef de 
 yudder yeahs hes been bottomless, dis one hes 
 been volcanic — jes' seem to hev got down es low 
 es it cud an' den throwed up whut it cudn't 
 reach ! Dey say us in de boss bizness am suf- 
 ferin' fur de sins ob our daddies ; ef dis am so, de 
 origernal daddy ob de boss bizness must er slid 
 outer Sodam an' Termorrow jes' befo' de yearth- 
 quake ! Dey say we must suffer to de third an' 
 de fourth generashun, but hit 'pears to me de biz- 
 ness dun passed through forty crosses ob tribe- 
 lashun already ! 
 
 ** By March she hed et me outob ebrything but 
 er little Jersey bull an' er hatrack, an' I cudn't 
 
 153 
 
7 nai. "IKK se^'he ssf, 'Fa fee: 
 . - -^ tB kogs;, aa' I kMr I fciBsel dK 
 J m^ «Buiici gat ■■■■■^ll, I Ined to gpt 
 rr fiv er fenfle gsese 
 
 T : ^' ^ew eanijrtftiag is ds 
 : ~f '^&e'd tdke or nKidi 
 
 s^S: vbsB I dan dBMi ^ife up, ieab 
 £■■1 de : . ~ - oi levy m sbb|hh* fer de Cii 
 
 1 iM^gptE . ' - : ' rj^ lor at de ^racais^ 2:1 . 
 !• ir T- ~ -:-: §wdMSSi,ahe1igl»e!:-• 
 
 er 
 ef hedlc 
 
 Ife T 
 
 "Da 
 
 I Watjr. 
 
 fcfez^ V 
 
 i^h*s 
 
 :ad ofe iDe 
 
 di 
 
 bes: 
 I b^emes i9 h : 
 
 ~ ^s^ 
 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 But the old man never got any farther ; he was 
 interrupted by a great commotion in the back 
 yard. He went out of the door like a two-year- 
 old, but soon came prancing back like Strathberry 
 in hobbles. 
 
 " Thank goodness !" he said, *M've sold 'er ! 
 rvesold'er ! !" 
 
 ** To whom ?" I asked, surprised now, myself. 
 
 ** To de Louisville an' Nashville railroad," he 
 said — **ten pacin' crosses at fifty dollars a cross ! 
 Yo* see, boss," he said, breathlessly, "de ole 
 'oman wuz ridin' her to mill jes' now, an' she got 
 to jawin* wid ernudder 'oman jes' er little too 
 long to miss er frate train dat cum erlong, an' dat 
 orter stopped 'twell she got through talkin', an' 
 hit killed de filly an' broke de old 'oman's jaw, 
 an' de doctah say she can't talk no mo' twell next 
 Christmas ! Thang Gawd fur two sech blessins ! 
 — de rightus am nurver fursaken !" And he 
 rushed out to find a lawyer, but not until he had 
 drawn off the following quaint account which he 
 asked me to send to the company : 
 
 L. & N. R. R Dr. 
 
 To Ole Wash. 
 Nov. I, 1895. 
 
 To breakin' Dinah's jaw $000.0$ 
 
 To sale of ten pacin ' crosses at $50 a cross..$50o.oo 
 
 $$00.05 
 155 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 N. B. — Gentlemen : 
 Pay fur de crosses an' Til knock off fur de 
 jaw. OLE WASH. 
 
 And later, when he pocketed his money, he 
 chuckled and remarked to me : *M tell yo\ boss, 
 dey ain't nuffin lak crossin' our fillies on a loco- 
 motive to improve de breed in dis state.'* 
 
 It took a lawsuit, but — he sold her 1 
 
 156 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 HOW OLD WASH CAPTURED A GUN. 
 
 ** TENNIE, the famous dun mule of Wilson 
 J county, Kansas, is dead. Jennie was so old 
 that men had long since quit guessing on her age. 
 She was gray over the eyes when Jim Johnson 
 drove her into Wilson county, and that occurred 
 in 1871. She bore on her hip the United States 
 army brand, and popular tradition had it that she 
 participated in the Mexican war." 
 
 When old Wash saw the above in a newspaper^ 
 he was very much exercised and wanted to go 
 over to Kansas to see about it. 
 
 **Why, suh," he said, '*dat*s de same dun 
 mule I wuz plowin' on a rocky hillside up at 
 Double Branches in de fall of a'teen sixty-two, 
 when Wilson's raiders cum through Tennessee 
 an' tuk me an' dat mule bofe erlong an' made 
 sojers outen us. Hit's jes' lak de paper sed — I 
 knowed ebry ha'r on her, an' she wuz trottin' 
 bred frum her head-end to her lightnin' end, bein' 
 by a Spanish jack outen a mair by a son ob im- 
 ported Messenger. She wuz drapped de fall 
 
 157 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 'O 
 
 Jeems K. Poke wuz Mected preserdent, an' she 
 went thru de Mexerkin war, jes' lak de paper say. 
 Ef deyMl only dig her up an' see ef she's got a 
 scar on her lef hin' heel dey won't be no doubt ob 
 it at all. She got dat scar by kicken' a solid shot 
 frum a forty-pounder, dat de Mexerkins had fired 
 at our men, back into de iWexekin line, an' killin' 
 er whole rigerment ob Mexekins jes' in de act ob 
 sayin* deir ebenin' prayer ! Fur de Lord sake, 
 boss, hit's de truth ! I wudn't lie 'bout er mule ! 
 An' I jes' lak ter see her onct mo' — fur she wuz 
 de cause ob my bein' so inderpendent terday." 
 
 '* How was that ?" I asked. " I thought you 
 said Wilson's raiders got you both." 
 
 ** So dey did, so dey did," he said, *' an' dat's 
 depint I'm arter. Yo' see, dey tuck us bofe an' 
 made sojers outen us. Dey put de dun mule to 
 pullin' cannons an' put me to diggin' ditches, 
 wid er whole rigerment ob yudder niggers, an' 
 throwin' up breastworks an' tunnelin' hills 'round 
 Nashville. I swear to yo', suh, ef ennybody 
 thinks sojernin' am play, jes' let 'em jine de army 
 de naixt scrap Unk Sam gits into. Befo' ninety 
 days am out dey' II yearn fer white-winged peace 
 wusser den de animules shet up in de ark yearned 
 fur de flutter ob de dove's wing ! 
 
 *'But wusser times wuz comin' 1 An* when 
 Hood's army cum in de Yankees gin us guns an' 
 tole us we had ter fight or be cotch an' hung ter 
 telegraf postes ! Says 1 to de offercer : 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 ** * Good Lord, Marse Yankee, I don't wanter 
 shoot at no white folks ! 'Spose I happen to hit 
 Ole Marster, or one of Mister Forrest's men, 
 whut dem white folks gwi' do ter dis nigger ef 
 dey ketch 'im ? Nigger don't kno' nufifin' 'bout 
 huntin' ennything but possums — lemme do de 
 diggin'. Sez I, M'd ruther dig er hole ter Chiny 
 fur yo' dan ter face dem cannons ob Mister For- 
 rest's men wid Marse John Morton er pullin' ob 
 de trigger !' 
 
 " But dat jes' made de offercer mad wid me, 
 an' he tole me ef we didn't go an' shoot dey'd 
 hang us fur disserters. I tell yo' boss, de nigger 
 whut wuz captured an' pressed inter dat war wuz 
 sho' in er tight place. Ef he didn't fight de 
 Yankees hung 'im, an' ef he did fight de Johnnies 
 shot 'im I Gawd, I don't want no mo' ob it I 
 Dey ain't gwi' git me in no war wid Spain I 
 
 '* Wal, suh, dey saunt me out to de frunt soon 
 es Gineral Hood got posted on de hills souf ob 
 Nashville, an' dey marched us all out in de line ter 
 take er big gun on er hill. 1 swear to yo', boss, 
 ef yo' ain't nurver been marched up ter take er 
 big gun an' hit loaded an' pinted at yo', yo' don't 
 kno' whut it am to hab de mos' miserbul, un- 
 komplementry feelin's in dis wurl chasing each 
 yudder up an' down yo' back-bone. Ebery step 
 1 tuk it 'peared lak my feet jes' stuck to de 
 yearth, an' I wuz so skeered de cold sweat stood 
 in beads all ober my gun-barrel ! Ebry bone in 
 
 159 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 my body got stiff es er stick 'cept my backbone, 
 an' dat jes' seem ter wanter curl up an' lay down 
 on de sunny side ob sumpin' an' go to sleep. 
 
 '* When we fus' started we wuz two miles frum 
 dat gun, an' hit didn't seem to be much bigger'n 
 a locus' tree, an' de hole in it 'bout big ernuff fur 
 er rabbit ter run in. But befo' we marched fifty 
 yards, boss, dat gun wuz es big es de bigges' 
 poplar in de woods, wid er hole in it big ernuff fur 
 er she ba'r an' her cubs ter crawl in, an' hit wuz 
 p'inted straight at my head — jes' picked me out 
 an' nobody else ! I stood it fer er leetle while, 
 an' when de offercers wan't lookin' I drapped out 
 ob de ranks an' fell in ergin 'way down to de lef ', 
 an' t'inks I : ' Yo' ain't p'intin' at me now, sho' !' 
 but, bless yo' soul, when I look up ergin dar it wuz 
 p'intin' at me an' nobody else ! I nurver heurd 
 ob er gun singlin' out one nigger in er thousan' 
 befo', but dat's whut dat gun wuz doin' ! 
 
 *' We marched on er leetle furder, till I seed de 
 ball startin' outen it. I seed de fiah flash an' de 
 ball start out jes' es plain es I see de sun in heaben 
 dis minnit ! At fust it wan't bigger den de moon, 
 but befo' it got half-way cross dat valley it wuz 
 big es de sun, an' es it cum rollin' on straight fur 
 me,fo' de Lord, boss, it got bigger an' bigger, twell 
 it looked lak ernudder wurl rollin' on, black es 
 de pit ob doom, an' spitten' out fiah an' brim- 
 stone, an' smoke an' saltpeter, an' Gord-knows- 
 whut, an' rollin', an' er-r-o-l-l-lin', an' er-r-o-1- 
 
 i6o 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 l-i-n* es straight fur me es ef I wuz de onlies* 
 nigger in de whole rigerment! Hits de truf ef I eber 
 tole hit ! 
 
 ** Jes' den de offercer he holler out, 'Charge !* 
 an' I charged sho' nuff — dat's whut I'd bin 
 wantin' ter doebersence I started. I charged fur 
 er rock fence lak er groun' squir'l. But when I 
 peeped ober dat fence der cum dat ball straight 
 fur me ergin, er rollin' an' er r-o-l-l-lin' an' er 
 r-o-l-l-i-n ! I got up frum dar an' lit out roun' 
 Marse John Overton's brick smoke-house, an' 
 den I peeped frum roun' de cornderob dat house, 
 an' I hope I may go in de trottin' boss bizness 
 jes' on de ebe ob de naixt Clevelan' misrepre- 
 sentashum, an' see my thousan' dollar colts go 
 beggin' fur coon skins, ef dat ball wasn't headed 
 straight fur dat smoke-house jes' lak hit knew I 
 wuz dar — er rollin', an' er r-o-l-lin', an' er r-o-I- 
 1-i-n' ! * Gord,' sez I, ' I can't stay heah I' An' 
 I lit out an' tacked ercross er hundred-acre wheat 
 fiel', runnin' fust dis way an' den dat, an' 'roun* 
 an' roun' er big hill, but dat ball jes' tuck ercross 
 de fiel', too, an' tacked when Hacked, an' turned 
 cornders when I turned cornders, an' went 'roun' 
 an' 'roun' dat hill, er rollin' an' er r-o-l-lin' 
 straight fur me an' nobody else, an' I'd bin er 
 dead nigger dis day ef I hadn't fell in er twenty- 
 foot sink hole jes' es de ball tuck off my cap an' 
 rolled on, killen' ten thousan' men fo' miles on 
 de yudder side ob de ribber, an' bored dat tunnel 
 
 i6i 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 thru' de hill dis side ob Nashville whar de Ellen N 
 railroad now run dey trains thru' ebery day ! — 
 er rollin' an' er r-o-l-l-lin ! Gord, suh, it am de 
 
 truf — I wudn't tell er lie fur sech er thing es er 
 cannon ball, an' dar's de tunnel dar, yo' kin go 
 thru' ennydayan' see fur yo'sef," and he bit off 
 a piece of tobacco and shook his head long and 
 earnestly. 
 
 "Avery narrow escape," I remarked, **but 
 that does not explain how that old dun mule was 
 the cause of your present prosperity," 
 
 " I'm cummin' to dat now," he said as he put 
 his tobacco back into his hat, his red handkerchief 
 on his tobacco, and the whole on his head. 
 "When 1 fell in dat sink hole er runnin' frum 
 dat ball, I broke three ribs, an' Gord bless yo' 
 soul, honey. Uncle Sam ain't gwi' see his sojers 
 suffer in dey ole aige fur hunurbul wounds got in 
 battle, an' ef I ain't drawin' ebry quarter, three 
 dollars an' sixty -two cents fur each one ob dem 
 ribs den my name ain't Shadrack Ebenezer Zadoc 
 Washington Grundy, an' dat's de truf !" 
 
 162 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 BR'ER WASHINGTON'S ARRAIGNMENT. 
 
 *'l AIN'T nurvertole yo' 'bout de time dey had 
 1 me up befo' de jedge at Nashville fur makin*, 
 without license, er leetle ob dat licker dat makes 
 kings ob us all, is I ?" asked old Wash the 
 other day. *M don't kno' how in de wurl dey 
 kotch me," continued the old darkey, ** fur I'd 
 bin makin' it eber sense de war up in der holler ob 
 de Indian Camp Springs, whar de Indians made 
 it long, long ergo, befo' enny ob us wuz bohn — 
 jes' fo* or five galuns to keep de old man's cow- 
 ketcher gwine," he continued, "an' I don't see 
 how in de wurl dese heah river-new offercers 
 foun' it out. But dey did, an' fur one time de ole 
 man wuz sho' in a tight place. 
 
 ** Yo' see," he continued, *Mt ain't ebrybody 
 kno' how ter make good whisky. I don't mean 
 dis heah stuff dese po' white trash makes up in 
 de mountings so strong an' vile dat when yo' on- 
 cork a bottle ob it on dis yearth it make de debbil 
 sneeze in de reguns below. But I'm talkin' 'bout 
 sho* nuff whisky — whisky daf sho' nuff white 
 
 1 6,^ 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 folks drink — so pyore an' ripe dat all yo' hafter 
 do is ter oncork de stopper on dis yearth an* 
 watch de roses bloom in paradise. 
 
 *'Yo' must make it in October," he said, 
 knowingly, " er 'bout de time de fall poet begins 
 ter write his poem on de golden rod, when de 
 leabs begin ter turn purple an' golden, an' de air 
 am. crisp an' sparklin', an' de spring water am 
 full ob fallin' nuts an' de 'romer ob de sweet 
 night dews. Yo' mus' kotch yore water frum 
 outen er col' spring dat flows frum under sum 
 sweet paw-paw tree, runnin' ober er bed-rock ob 
 blue limestone, in which er few acuns dun drapt 
 ter gib it de strenf ob de oak tree. Den, sum 
 night when de moon am full an' de sent ob de 
 wild haws fill all de air, jes' go out — but dar now," 
 he said, laughingly, *'whut's all dat gotter do 
 wid dis story ? Nemmine, jes' yo' cum 'roun' 
 to my cabin sum day, child, an' lemme let yo' 
 taste it onct. It's den yo'll see de gates ob glory 
 open fur er minnit er two, an' de ladder ob kon- 
 solashun run up an' down 'twixt de heaben an' 
 de yearth. O, it's den yo'll wish yore neck wuz 
 er spiral pipe, runnin' roun' an' roun', so dat one 
 drink would hafter go fifty miles befo' it got outer 
 sight," and the old man laughed heartily. 
 
 " But dey cotch me," he continued, '*an' dey 
 tuck me to Nashville, an' when dey put me in de 
 jail my folks all got erroun' me an' cried an' tole 
 me good-bye, an' my wife she tuck it pow'ful 
 
 164 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 hard an' she wanted ter go an* git de preacher ter 
 cum an' pray fur me. Dat's de way wid sum 
 Christuns," said the old man, with a tinge of sar- 
 casm in his tone ; **dey willin' ernuff ter play 
 hide-an'-seek wid de debbil long es dey think dey 
 am safe, but jes' es soon es dey gits cotched up 
 wid den dey wanter go in partnership wid de 
 Lawd ! Huh ! Dey didn't skeer me 'tall, an' I 
 jes' say ter my wife : * Look heah, Dinah, yo' 
 jes' stop yore wailin' an' bellowment an' go on 
 home, an' ef 1 ain't dar by cane-grindin' time, 
 yo' jes' go on an' marry Brer Peter Dawson, de 
 preacher, an' on de night ob yore weddin' supper, 
 yo' jes' go down ter de medder spring, dig fo' foot 
 under it, an' fetch out dat blue demmerjohn ob 
 bred-in-de-purple licker I berrid dar fo'teen years 
 ergo, an' yo' an' Brer Peter jes' drink it ter my 
 health, fur ef yo' don't, it's so pyore an' good 
 an' ripe it will rise itself sum day !" 
 
 **She kno' by dat I warn't gwi' stay dere in 
 dat jail," chuckled the old man ; '* I didn't make 
 dat whisky fur my wife's secun' husban' ter 
 drink. Huh ! I had no noshun ob stayin' in no 
 jail twell cane-grindin' time. Not fur makin* 
 good whisky — now ef I made mean whisky dat 
 ud bin ernudder thing an' I'd bin willin' to plead 
 gilty an' say far'well. 
 
 '*Den dey saunt er leetle lawyer ter mean* 
 he tuck me off an' say he bin 'ployed to offen' 
 me. An' den he say he gwi' prove I wuz a 
 
 165 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 yallerby — 'dough yo' sees yo'sef I'm es black es 
 er cro' — an' he say he gwi' git out er writ ob 
 circum-cumfetchum, an' ignis fat-yo'-us, an' abe- 
 et-de-corpus an' all dat. I tole 'im I much er- 
 bleege ter him, but I wuz gwi' go dar an' tell de 
 truf an' talk to dat jedge myse'f, an* wuz gwi' 
 file er cross-cut-saw-bill into dat cote, sho'! 
 
 ** Jes' fo' de trial cum off, I saunt down to my 
 wife an' tole her ter dig up dat gallun I dun berrid 
 down dar in de medder fo'teen years befo' an' ter 
 fill up dat decanter my ole Marster gib me befo' 
 he die, an' ter fotch it ter me. 
 
 **Yo' nurver seed dat decanter, is yo' suh ? 
 O, 1 tell yo' my ole Marster wuz er high roller, 
 an' dat decanter wus er picture in er lookin' glass. 
 It wuz es thick es de roun' pastern ob de race 
 hoss, an' made ob one solid piece ob cut glass, 
 an' cyarved in cammeos an' Greek god dermites, 
 an' de stopper itself wuz de haid ob de Venus 
 hersef on er bust — leastwise dat whut ole Marster 
 sed — an' he 'lowed she wuz sho' in de proper 
 place ter be on a bust ! I tell yo' suh, when dat 
 whisky got in dat decanter it look lak de grape 
 juice ob heaven cotch in er dimon' urn an' framed 
 in all de classic glory ob de ainshunt Greeks. 
 When de sunlight fall on it, it look lak er big 
 blazin' ruby sot in de crown ob er cherubin ! 
 
 **I slip it under my cote an' went in ter de 
 cote-room. An' dar dey played er mean trick on 
 me, fur dey sot me down in de same pen wid er 
 
 i66 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 lot ob po' white trash frum de mountings dat had 
 bin cotch in de act ob makin' wild-cat whisky ! 
 Gord, suh, hit made me mad, fur I wan't used 
 ter 'soshatin' wid dat kind o' white folks ! 
 
 " Toreckly de jedge an' de jury cum in an' de 
 jedge sot down an' red out : ' Newnighted States 
 ergin Washington Grundy.' 
 
 ** * Heah, Marster,' sez I, an' Gord bless yore 
 soul, honey, I pranced up befo' dat jedge inner- 
 cent lookin* es de new-born colt when he paced 
 ober de speckled calf layin' in de weeds. Den 
 de jedge look ober his glasses sorter kind lak — 
 Gord bless yo', honey, he knows er gemman 
 when he sees him ! — an' he red sumpin ergin me 
 an' den he ax me ef I'm gilty or not gilty. 
 
 ** * Yes, Marster,' sez I, M'm gilty an' not 
 gilty, too, an' I'd lak ter 'splain to this honorbul 
 cote how it am.' 
 
 ** De jedge he smile an' de jury laf — Gord bless 
 yo', honey, dey knows er gemman when dey 
 meet 'im in de rode, too — an' de jedge he tells me 
 I has de right ter make enny explunashuns I 
 wants — dat dat wuz m^ privulage, an' when he 
 sed dat, I jes' made 'im er low bow, wid my hat 
 under my arm, an' sez I : * Thank yo', Marster, 
 yo' am er gemman sho', an' ^r jedge lak de jedges 
 ob de Bible.' An' 1 laid erside my hat, button 
 up tight my ole dubble-brested King Alfrud cote, 
 dat ole Marster gin me, whut he useter wear when 
 be made big speeches, an' I sez : 
 
 167 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** * Marse jedge an' gemmen ob de jury, yo* 
 sees befo' yo* heah a pore old nigger, cotch in de 
 act uf manufactorin', fur his stommick's sake, a 
 leetle ob dat dervine stuff dat makes kings ob us 
 all, an* fur dat reezun, fotch up, in his ole aige, 
 befo* dis honorbul cote fur transgreshuns ob de 
 law. Yo' ax me ef I'm gilty ob makin' whisky 
 — dat wild-cat stuff dat makes de rag-weeds 
 bloom in paradise, an' turns de roses ob hope into 
 de dog-fennel ob dispair, an' I tells yo'— No ! 
 But ef yo' ax me ef I gilty ob makin' er leetle ob 
 dat dervine 'lixer, which turns de tuneless hart 
 ob de mos' wretched an' misserbul ob mankind 
 inter a hall wid harps ob er thousan' strings, es I 
 nurver tole er lie in my life, I must tell yo' — Yes ! 
 Not dat vile stuff dat kills our moral s'washun, 
 an' lays us in de gutter wid de dorgs, but dat 
 blessed angul-ile, which, taken in moderashun, es 
 er gemman should, clothes de beggar in silk, 
 makes frien's fur de frien'less an' coins gold fur 
 de goldless. Dis am de licker dat turns rags inter 
 roses, ole maids inter bloomin' gals an' er grabe- 
 yard funeral discorse inter er poem on parerdise. 
 Dat puts cheerity inter our harts, youth in our 
 veins, an' spreads de warm cumfort ob lub over 
 de feather-bed ob de yunerverse. Dis am de 
 licker dat onlocks de doors ob de magernashun 
 an' leads de poet's mind through de streets 
 ob gold, 'mid crystal pillars, up ter de wall ob 
 amerthest, up ter de battlements ob light, 
 
 i68 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 whar he sees de stars ob beautiful thoughts^ 
 a millyun miles befo' dey gets ter him, 
 cummin on angel wings in beams ob sun- 
 light ! Dis am de licker dat falls lak a splinter 
 ob starlight ter string de dewdraps ob de hart. 
 Dat Sollermon drunk, an' David sung to ; dat 
 Washington praised, an' Ole Hick'ry swore by. 
 Heah it am, gemmen ob de jury,' an' I pulled out 
 dat decanter an' hilt it befo' dey eyes, an' it 
 blind 'em, lak de sunshine risin' in de valley — 
 * heah it am, gemmen ob de jury,' I sed, * wid 
 truth in its eyes, an' lub in its heart — de em- 
 bottled poem ob de yunerverse ! Taste it, an' ef 
 it am whisky — dat stuff wid cat-claws an' debbil 
 breath — den sen' me up 'long wid dis po' white 
 trash fur makin' wild-cat whisky, es er groveller 
 wid swine an' er eater ob husks. 
 
 ** * But ef it smells lak de new-bohn bref ob de 
 infunt anguls, looks inter yore eyes lak de lakes 
 ob lub in de depths ob de blue-eyed cherubins, 
 an' tastes lak de resurrected dream ob de fus' 
 kiss yore sweet-hart gib yo' in de days ob long 
 ergo, den sot de ole man free !' 
 
 **Wid dat, I oncorks de bottle, an' lo ! dat 
 dingy ole cote-room change in er minnit ! 'Stid 
 ob de smell ob books, an' sweatin' lawyers, an' 
 ambeer, an' dusty floors, yo'd er thort all de 
 skule gals an' nymphs ob de ages hed cum dar ter 
 bathe, perfumed wid de otter ob de roses ob Eden 
 an' dey ha'r dat fell oberdey allerbaster sholders 
 
 169 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 *nointed wid de oil Eppollo made. Yo'd er thout 
 de janitor ob heaben bed turned de sprinklin' pot 
 ob glory on de yearth, filled wid de water ob 
 peppermint an' camfire, purfumed wid vi'lets an' 
 tinctured wid angul tears ! 
 
 '* De ole figured paper on de walls blossumed 
 inter rale flowers ; de dingy ole winders blazed 
 lak de winders ob mohnin' when de day-king 
 rise ; de ole dustv mattin' on de floor wuz er 
 carpet ob blue-grass down in de medder, wid 
 daisys an' daffodils all ober it, an' eben de spider- 
 webs on de ceilin' wuz changed inter tapestry ob 
 silver, whilst de freskoes hung down in fillergree 
 works ob gold. I looked at de jedge an' de jury, 
 an' dar dey sot in stuperment an' 'stonishment, 
 wid acquittal writ in de tender depths ob dey 
 meltin' eyes. 
 
 ** I handed dat decanter to de fus' juryman — he 
 jes' smelt it an' fell ober in er dead faint, callin' 
 out, sorter dream lak, ' Not gilty, not gilty.' De 
 naixt one taste it, an' I seed de light ob Genersis 
 break in on 'im. De thud one tuck er big swaller 
 an* dey had to hold 'im to de yearth to keep 'im 
 frum 'vaporatin', lak Exerdus, to heaben. An' 
 all de yudders, es fast es dey taste it, wuz added 
 to de numbers ob dem dat wuz fur me ! But 
 when it got ter de jedge, suh, he tuck er grate 
 big swaller ter see ef I wuz lyin' or not, an' Gord 
 bless yore soul, honey, he hadn't mor'n taste it 
 befo' he riz frum dat bench, shouted ' Glory, 
 
 170 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 hallyluyer !' an' fell on my neck an' wept. I 
 look 'roun* at de lawyurs what hadn't tasted it, 
 suh, an' dar dey sot, froze ter dey chairs, wid de 
 s'liver runnin' outen de corners ob dey mouths 
 lak po' houns 'roun' er sawsage mill. An' befo' 
 I knowed whut it all mean dey all broke out 
 singin' dat good ole him : 
 
 ** ' Dis am de stuff we long hab sought, 
 An' mourned bekase we foun' it not.' 
 
 '* When I seed I had 'em on de mourner's bench, 
 suh, den it wuz my time ! I drawed mysef up two 
 er three foot higher, buttoned up my ole King Al- 
 frud cote anudder link, an' sed : 
 
 ** ' An' now, gemmen ob de jury, sense dis 
 Newnighted States govument dun see fit to 'raign 
 me, I wanter 'raign hit. I've bin heah befo', 
 yo' honor. I've bin heah to listen to de greates' 
 lawyer de State ob Tennessee eber raised, my 
 ole Marster, de 'Onerbul Felix Grundy, an' time 
 an' ergin I've seed 'im stand rat heah, in dis very 
 cote dat I've got on, an' in dis very room, an' 
 shake de roof wid de thunder ob his larnin' an' 
 de lightnin' ob his wit. Allers on de side ob de 
 po', allers on de side of jestus. An' ef he wuz 
 erlive terday, he'd git up heah an' say to yo' all : 
 * Let dis ole nigger go !' — an' yo' kno' yo'd do it. 
 
 **Mn de good ole days, gemmen, he tort me 
 menny things. He tort me to be true, to tell de 
 truf an' ter raise bosses. Men lak him an' yore 
 
 171 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 fathers, gemmen, tuck my ancesturs out ob de 
 jungles ob barbarity an' led us inter de blessed 
 temple ob religun an' light. Dey made slaves ob 
 us ter do it, gemmen, but I thang Gord I wuz 
 erlowed ter be er slave in dis wurl fur de sake ob 
 bein' etunnally free in de naixt. Menny an' 
 menny er time, gemmen, I've driv my ole Mars- 
 terin his cheeriutan' fo', an' he'd tell yo' hissef, 
 ef he v^uz heah terday, I'm de onlies' nigger lef 
 in de State ob Tennessee dat kin drive er thur- 
 rerbred fo'-in-han', holdin' de ribbins wid de fo' 
 fingers ob my lef han' an' playin' on de tender 
 moufs es gently es er lady touches de strings ob 
 de light gittar. He made me er Christun an' er 
 gemman, aigucated my po' cannabal pallit to de 
 glory ob Tennessee mutten an' de sweetness ob 
 Tennessee beef. An' it wuz frum his side-board 
 I fus' got de taste ob dat liker yo' jes' tasted — dat 
 licker dat makes kings ob us all — an' all I wanted 
 in dis wurl wuz to stay wid 'im twell I die. 
 
 " * But in my ole aige, heah cums dis New- 
 nighted States guvermen' an' sots me free. An' 
 O, Marsters, dey sot me free indeed — free frum 
 de friends I lubbed, free frum de cumperney ob 
 gemmen, free frum de good things ob de wurl, an', 
 wuss ob all, free frum de sight but not de appertite 
 ob dat licker dat makes kings ob us all ! 'Stid 
 ob drivin' er cheeriut an fo' down de pike ob de 
 valley ob plenty, I mus' plow er leetle tow-haided 
 muel on de flinty hillsides ob poverty. 'Stid ob 
 
 172 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 'soshatin' wid learned men who sot in de counsils 
 ob dis country an* de cotes ob de kings, I mus* 
 be cussed an' mocked by de hill-billy an' de po^ 
 white, or forced to 'soshate wid low-lived an' 
 low-mannered niggers an' fiel'-han's. An' 'stid 
 ob drinkin' de 'lixer ob life from de decanter ob 
 de gords, in my ole aige, I'm forced ter drink de 
 branch water ob poverty from de gourd dat grows 
 in de barn-yard ob toil. Aigucated er gemman, 
 turned out wid tuffs ! Raised on roast beef an^ 
 mutton, now hafter hustle ter git bacon an' 
 greens ! tJsed terde licker ob civerlizashun, now 
 hafter drink de branch water ob barbarety. An' 
 ef I chance ter remember de things ob my youth 
 an' yield ter de temptashun ob er higher aigu- 
 cashun, fotch up heah in my ole aige ter be saunt 
 ter jail fur tryin' ter lib lak er gemman an' er 
 Christun. Gemmen, kin yo' do it ? Marsters, 
 will yo' sen' de ole man up ?' 
 
 ."'No! by the Eternal, we won't!' said er 
 nice lookin' gemman dat wuz settin' on de jury, 
 an' den dey all riz an' say : * Jedge, not gilty I 
 Not gilty !' An' dey crowd 'roun' me so de jedge 
 has ter 'journ cote, an' dey shook my han' wid 
 de glory ob dat licker still in dey eyes shinin' lak 
 cherubins in de lakes ob lub. An' es de jedge 
 pass out he tech my arm an' say : 
 
 '* 'Washington, de jury foun' yo' not gilty, 
 but heah am fifty dollars to pay de tax on de 
 naixt run ob de still at Indian Camp Springs; 
 
 173 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 'O 
 
 an' ef it happens ter be er good deal too much 
 ter pay de river-new, jes' make er leetle mo' an' 
 send it ter yore friend, de jedge ob de Suddern 
 Deestrick ob de Nevvnighted States.' " 
 
 174 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 A CAVALRY DRILL IN OLD TENNESSEE. 
 
 "T^ALL in, gentlemen, fall in! Two erbreast 
 1 there, an* no foolishness ! Tom Riddick, 
 can't you keep that mule still ? Come, come, 
 gentlemen, do fall in at the command ! Do git 
 into line ! Promptness is the fust thing in mil- 
 ertary." 
 
 It was a balmy Saturday evening in a village 
 of Tennessee — a drill day with the boys — about 
 the year 1850. To correctly understand this 
 sketch, and it is taken from nature, I must first 
 ask you to remember that from its earliest his- 
 tory Tennessee has been called the "Volunteer 
 state," an appellation won by the promptness 
 of her sons to respond to their country's call 
 for volunteers. In fact, the state may almost 
 be said to have been born fighting, if such 
 a term may be applied to an abstract common- 
 wealth, for certain it is that her sons played a 
 conspicuous part in the revolutionary war, before 
 the then " western territory of North Carolina *' 
 had been divided off into the present state of 
 Tennessee. After that war the aggressive spirit 
 
 175 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 of the warlike tribe of Indians which occupied the 
 beautiful country of middle and west Tennessee 
 and the fine virgin land of the Gulf States as- 
 sisted in no small degree in keeping up that mili- 
 tary spirit so earnestly begun in the earlier days. 
 It needed only the fiery spirit of Andrew Jackson 
 to firmly fix the fighting spirit of the state, and in 
 him it received the full measure of all that was 
 needed — yes, and more. The head and front of 
 all this military enthusiasm was centered in the 
 infantry musters, cavalry drills being rarer, and, 
 we believe, not often attempted till the period 
 directly following the Mexican war, and then not 
 to the extent of the old musters. The following 
 account given me by an octogenarian of the 
 good old times I have endeavored faithfully to 
 narrate. If it appears a little rough, pray re- 
 member that those were rough and ready times, 
 and that to attempt to describe the drill without 
 giving the language and personnel of the drillers 
 would be like painting a battle scene and leaving 
 out the blood. 
 
 **Fall in, gentlemen, fall in V 
 , This command came from Col. Dick Posey, a 
 fine old gentleman of sixty years, who had seen 
 service in the war of 1812 and the Mexican war, 
 brave, honest, simple and unaffected, but who 
 had forgotten all his military learning except a 
 proud and martial bearing, and that "all cavalry- 
 men must turn out their toes while riding.'' On 
 
 176 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 this particular evening the Colonel's bearing was 
 truly grand, the occasion being one of great im- 
 portance to him ; for aside from the fact that he 
 was proud of the military position he held and the 
 reputation he had made in the war, it was well- 
 known that the Colonel was a candidate for the 
 state legislature, and much of his success de- 
 pended on the manner in which he displayed his 
 knowledge of war. He was mounted on a long, 
 slim, raw-boned black mare, whose every rib 
 could be counted, but as fat as a nervous three- 
 quarter thoroughbred could well be with the sad- 
 dle scarcely ever off of her during the day, and 
 as often as once a week good for a half-night's 
 chase after the hounds. She carried a high head 
 and a rat-tail, and was so thin in the girth that 
 the Colonel could almost wrap his long legs 
 around her. Withal, she was a great fool and 
 ready to shy at the slightest provocation, a trick 
 which gave her owner the opportunity he wanted 
 to show off his skill as a rider. 
 
 To the Colonel's side was buckled a long saber 
 that nearly touched the ground, balanced by a 
 pistol in a holster that looked large enough to be 
 a leather coffm for a baby mummy. This pistol, 
 by the way, was of a character that I cannot, in 
 justice, pass over without a word as to its indi- 
 viduality. It was loaded by means of powder, 
 balls and caps, and was nearly as heavy as a 
 sporting gun of to-day. Its peculiarity lay in the 
 
 12 177 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 fact that it was exceedingly "touchous" about 
 going off, and if loaded too heavily, when fired, 
 every chamber went off simultaneously, the balls 
 flying in every direction except straight forward. 
 It required more skill to fire it without killing 
 everybody on each side of it than it now requires 
 to properly fire a Gatling or a Hotchkiss. But 
 to return to the Colonel. A homespun suit, dyed 
 with copperas, a slouched hat and feather and 
 cavalry boots completed his attire. 
 
 His company consisted of fifty or more farmers 
 mounted on nearly every beast that the soil of 
 the state would grow. Jim McHyde, the wit of the 
 village, had even ridden in on a steer, decorated 
 with cow-bells ; and, suddenly rushing out from 
 the thicket behind the only " grocery " in town, 
 he plunged into the ranks with such a clang and 
 shout as to stampede the entire company for a 
 moment. As the occasion was one of more or 
 less fun, Jim was ordered out, his steer turned 
 loose, and Jim himself was told to get up the old 
 cannon, brought back from Mexico, and fire i^ 
 after the drill was over ; a part of the military ex- 
 ercises scrupulously carried out at every drill, 
 chiefly to impress the importance of the occasion 
 on the small boys and ''women folks" of the 
 surrounding country. The company had been 
 coming in since twelve o'clock. The grocery, 
 nowadays euphoniously called the saloon, had 
 done a rushing business. Several horse swaps 
 
 178 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 had taken place, there had been three " quarter- 
 horse races " down the main street of the village, 
 and a fight or two was not omitted from the regu- 
 lar program. Many of the company had ridden 
 in on brood mares, and as it was the spring of the 
 year these had brought their colts along with 
 them. Each colt had been carefully criticised by 
 a bunch of judges, while its proud owner en- 
 thusiastically pointed out its fine points and ex- 
 patiated on its breeding. Finally, the company 
 had all assembled, and, after mounting. Colonel 
 Posey advanced towards the bunch, exclaiming : 
 
 ** Fall in now, gentlemen, fall in ! Two er- 
 breast an' set straight in the saddle. Git in quick 
 an* turn out yer toes," and he rode behind the 
 bunch of men, mares and mules. 
 
 At this command there was a general spurring 
 and rush as each one endeavored to get into line 
 with military promptness, but no one seemed to 
 know where the line was and how to get into it, 
 and to add to the general confusion, the colts got 
 mixed up and rushed around neighing for their 
 respective dams. 
 
 "Colonel," said Dick Thompson, who was 
 mounted on a small grey mule, ** hadn't these 
 here colts better be penned fust ? One ov 'em is 
 here pesterin' my ole mule mighty," he remarked, 
 as several of the colts in the general confusion 
 were going around nudging their noses under the 
 flanks of any four-legged beast they could find. 
 
 179 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 It 
 
 A great idee, Dick," said the Colonel. 
 "Gentlemen, all them that's mounted on brood 
 mares will please go into Cooper's stable yard 
 and shut in the colts." At this, for twenty min- 
 utes there was the greatest confusion in getting 
 each colt to follow its dam into the stable yard, 
 and much more in slipping the dam out and leav- 
 ing the colt behind ; but it was finally accom- 
 plished. 
 
 "iNow, gentlemen," said the Colonel, as he rode 
 around the bunch again, "form inter two straight 
 lines ; set straight in yer saddles, and turn out 
 yer toes ! Yes, gentlemen, no foolin' now. Lay 
 erside yer pranks, git inter line, set straight" — 
 riding down the line very erect — *'in yer saddles 
 and turn out yer — whoa, Molly ! — yer toes. 
 Dick, set straight there, won't you ? Git inter 
 line, boys ; fall inter line !" 
 
 "Colonel, there ain't no line to fall inter," said 
 Dick, chagrined at being personally mentioned in 
 the matter — " how kin a feller fall inter a thing 
 that ain't?" 
 
 "That's about so, Dick," said the Colonel; 
 "you're right. Here, Josh Giddens !" — seizing 
 Josh's horse by the bit — " keep right still. Now, 
 boys, form side and side to Josh Giddens. Don't 
 git too close, now ; leave room to use your saber 
 arm and to turn out yer toes. Here, boys, help 
 Dick to pull that mule into line — damn er mule, I 
 say '* — seeing Dick's mule holding back and roll- 
 
 i8o 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 ing the white of his eyes around at the crowd on 
 each side of him. " That's right ; now form a 
 second line behind this one — good ergin ! That's 
 er good platoon — hold yer hosses still ! Stop 
 talkin' in ranks ! — there, now, gentlemen, don't 
 bring enny more touchous horses here — don't do 
 it — war means killin', but it don't mean gettin' 
 yer head kicked off by some boss in yer own line. 
 (This on account of a gray mare letting fly both 
 heels at an inquisitive mule behind her.) Now, 
 gentlemen, have yer formed ?" — riding down the 
 line and inspecting it. 
 
 "Yes, yes; well, that's pritty good, pritty 
 good. A fme-looking body of men — equal to any 
 I saw in Mexico. Now, gentlemen, pay strict 
 attention to the commands — set straight in yer 
 saddles and turn out yer toes — hold yer pieces 
 right — set straight — look square to the front — turn 
 out yer — " 
 
 Bang ! ! ! 
 
 This discharge came from the old cannon which 
 Jim McHyde, in a spirit of fun and backed by the 
 boys of the village, had drawn up under an oak 
 tree in the rear of the company, and, having 
 loaded it with a half-pound of powder, and waited 
 till the company was intently interested in the 
 Colonel's instructions, had quietly applied a red- 
 hot iron to the fuse as he stood behind the tree, 
 and watched the effect the discharge would have 
 on the company in front. 
 
 i8i 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And it was startling. All were country horses, 
 unused to battle's grim roar, and as the fearful 
 discharge thundered in their rear, many whirled 
 round to face the dread monster, but the most of 
 them were seized with a keen desire to get out of 
 the way. Dick's gray mule shot forward as if 
 he had been the projectile itself, and many of the 
 others followed suit. The Colonel's mare, much 
 to her owner's disgust, whirled, and, fixing both 
 eyes and ears on the cloud of smoke, seemed 
 afraid to turn her back and run, but immediately 
 began to back off down the road with surprising 
 agility, leaving her rider powerless to stop her. 
 When fifty yards down the road she concluded 
 she was far enough to turn tail without being 
 devoured by the unknown monster ; so, seeing a 
 convenient corner, she suddenly whirled, nearly 
 unseating her rider, and made frantic efforts to 
 get away. It took tw^enty minutes to restore 
 order and place Jim McHyde under arrest, which 
 the Colonel did without delay, punctuated with 
 language more impressive than elegant. As the 
 only safe place was the rear end of the bar-room, 
 forty of the company immediately volunteered 
 their services to take the luckless Jim there and 
 keep him till further orders. Two were detailed, 
 and Jim was forced to " treat " them on arrival. 
 
 The arrest of Jim satisfied all parties, and they 
 again formed in lines. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, ** let's 
 
 182 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 all be quiet. The unexpected very often happens 
 in war, an' we must be prepared. But the man 
 who violates the rules always gets his jes' dues." 
 (Here the company looked longingly toward the 
 bar-room, where Jim and his guards could be 
 plainly seen taking a three-fingered drink, and 
 they were not fully convinced that Jim's punish- 
 ment was a just reward.) ** But let us to duty," 
 he added. " Now, I am fust goin' to drill you in 
 the use of the saber, and all them that's got guns 
 will bring 'em to a half-cock." (Here there was 
 a general clicking down the rank. Many of them 
 had, contrary to cavalry rules, brought their flint 
 and steel muskets, and Ab Perkins' had only one 
 notch on it, it was so old, and when at full cock 
 the steel was almost below the stock itself.) **A 
 half-cock, Mr. Perkins, if you please," said the 
 Colonel; ** lower your hammer to the first 
 notch." 
 
 " Kurnel, my ole gun ain't got but one notch," 
 said Ab, and he added, with dry humor : '* She 
 goes to h — 1 after fire, but when she gits it she 
 comes back with er bucketful." 
 
 At this wit of Ab the entire company broke out 
 into a laugh, in which the Colonel joined, and as 
 his gun had so bad a reputation and visited places 
 of questionable resort, Ab was allowed to take it 
 out of ranks and go and help keep Jim McHyde 
 straight. 
 
 ** Kurnel," said Sam Johnston, a small, red- 
 
 183 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 headed warrior, who was almost too full to sit 
 straight in the saddle, " don't — you think — sum- 
 p'n's wrongwith— my old— gun?" (holding it up, 
 cocking and recocking it with a most puzzled look 
 on his face). "She 'peers — to — click — pow'ful 
 — ku'is — to me." 
 
 *'Yes, Sam," said the Colonel, who recog- 
 nized the fact that Sam and his gun were both 
 too heavily loaded, " and you may both go off," 
 an order he was not long carrying out, but fol- 
 lowed with the taunts of the company, and such 
 remarks as *'Set straight in yer saddle, Sam !" 
 ** Turn out yer toes, Sam !" and " Look at ole 
 wool hat an' yeller briches on a billy goat 1" But 
 Sam headed for the grocery, and rode on. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen," said the commander, " as 
 we've got rid of all them that can't drill properly, 
 an' the rest of us is gentlemen an' horsemen, 
 let's get down to business. Now, as captain of 
 this mounted cavalry company, it is my duty — 
 in fact, I am commanded by the laws of Tennes- 
 see" — here he pulled out a paper from his pocket 
 and read : ' To properly drill the same in all re- 
 quirements of cavalry drill and practice.' ** Now, 
 gentlemen," said the Colonel as he rode slowly 
 down the line and seemed at a loss to know ex- 
 actly where to start, " the fust, an', in fact, the 
 only rule that I ever heard of in the Mexican war 
 was the one that we useter have an' practice. I 
 never read it out of a book, but somehow or other 
 
 184 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 "we all kinder centered to it, an' it's the only rule 
 I know of. I kin give you that rule in er few 
 words, for it's all I know," he said, apologet- 
 ically, ''erbout cavalry, an' it's jes' this: Set 
 straight in yer saddle, turn out yer toes, an' ride 
 at the enemy !" and he emphasized the rule, as 
 he repeated it slowly, by shaking his index finger 
 and gravely gesticulating, 
 
 ** Colonel, don't we have to arm and mount 
 fust?" 
 
 This question came from the ranks — from Major 
 Peeler — a gentleman aboutthe age of the Colonel, 
 who had also served in the Mexican war, and 
 who thought he knew quite as much of military 
 matters as the Colonel. Out of ranks he was 
 never happier than when telling of the various 
 battles he was engaged in ; in ranks he took 
 every occasion to correct any errors the Colonel 
 might make, much to that gentleman's disgust. 
 In fact, he had been a candidate against the 
 Colonel for the captaincy of this company, but 
 being self-important and arrogant and a poor 
 ** mixer," he had met the fate of all such in this 
 free country and been left in the ranks. 
 
 "Arm and mount fust!" exclaimed the Colonel, 
 hotly. **Why, we're supposed to be mounted 
 or else we'd be nothing but infantry ! Look er 
 here, Major," said the Colonel, with a good deal 
 of spirit, **ef you want to drill this company, 
 sir, I'll send in my resignation." 
 
 ** Go on, Colonel, go on !" shouted the com- 
 
 185 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 pany, who were beginning to get tired. "Of 
 course you're right. Carv'ry bound to be 
 mounted ! Ennybody knows that. Go on, don't 
 resign, drill us and let's go home." 
 
 "Well, then, gentlemen," said the Colonel, 
 calming down at this manifestation of his popu- 
 larity with the boys, '*as I was sayin', the only 
 F'jle I know is to set sr-iiihtin the saddle, turn 
 out yer toes, an' ride at the enemy. An' right in 
 that rule is where we got the bes' of the Mexi- 
 cans ; for their rule, es fur es I was able to see, 
 was to hump up them.selves on their grass-bellied 
 ponies an' git up an' git. Yes, gentlemen, by 
 knowin' an' enforcin' this rule we whipped the 
 dirtv greasers in every battle, an' bv follerin' it 
 to-morrer," he added, rising in his stirrups and 
 shaking his saber, "we kin whip the whole 
 world." Here the company yelled out its ap- 
 plause in a lc~g, iisr^.al hc-.vl, and, when it had 
 died away, a 5cje.ir::r.g .cire shouted in the 
 further rank, " \\'r.oora\^ ::r our rule an' Jeems 
 K. Polk." 
 
 "So that's the fust rule," said the Colonel ; 
 "now, how to do this is the next;" for the 
 Colonel saw that as he had but one rule he must 
 try to spread out what he did have as far as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 " First, set straight in yer saddle, like you see 
 me" — riding down the Hne with his shoulders 
 thrown uncomfortably back. "Yer coat-buttons 
 square between yer horse's ears, yer left hand 
 
 i86 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 holdin' yer reins, yer right graspin' yer sword, 
 with the pint elevated about forty-five degrees, 
 yer toes turned well out, so !" And he rode 
 down the line in great style, at sight of which 
 every man straightened himself up as near like 
 the Colonel as possible. 
 
 ** Second, gentlemen, you must ride at the 
 enemy. Now *at,* gentlemen, is a very little 
 word, but it is bigger than a bombshell in battle, 
 and means more than everything else ; in fact, 
 gentlemen, it's about the chief thing of this im- 
 portant rule, although it appears so small. Ef 
 you'd leave out all the other words in this rule, 
 and jes' git into yer saddles an' say at 'em ! and 
 then do it, you'd come mighty nigh knowin' all 
 the rules of war. Don't gallop around nor ride 
 about, then stop, but at, straight at, and do it 
 dam fast, to keep yer courage up !" 
 
 ** How about making a detour and a flank 
 movement?" inquired the irrepressible Major 
 Peeler. 
 
 ** Detours and flank movements," repeated the 
 Colonel, sarcastically. '* Them's mighty high- 
 soundin' words, Major, but they ain't worth er 
 dam in war. Where," said he, getting excited 
 and waving his sword, " did we ever make enny 
 detours in the Mexican war ? The only detour ! 
 ever saw," he thundered with withering sarcasm, 
 ** was when a piece of an Alabama and Tennes- 
 see regiment made a detour after a Mexican 
 
 187 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 goose roast one night, an' got cut off from the 
 regular army ; they came detouring back to camp 
 the next mornin' with a pack of greasers at their 
 heels — the only time in the whole war that enny 
 of our troops showed their heels to a Mexican." 
 
 This last was a home thrust, for it was well- 
 known in the village that the Major had been the 
 leader of the unfortunate company that went off 
 on the raid and came home so precipitately. 
 
 *' Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, '* I have 
 told you all the rules an' we'll now put 'em into 
 practice. We'll now proceed to march ; but we 
 won't go no further " — apologetically, since some 
 of the men began to grumble about moving at all 
 — **than the black-oak stump at the cross-roads 
 an' back ergin. Now, when I say 'forward,' 
 you mustn't go forward, but only prepare for it; 
 but when I say * march,' why jes' spur up an' 
 walk off." Here there was a visible commotion 
 in ranks, as several of the men had been sitting 
 sideways in the saddle during a part of this 
 long discourse, and they began to get into proper 
 position. ''Now, let us try," resumed the 
 Colonel. 
 
 " Forward " — waiting a few moments — " hold 
 on ! hold on ! stop ! stop ! Don't you recollect 
 I said you mustn't go till I said march ?" This 
 to the men eager to get off, and starting off in 
 every kind of time at the command, forward. 
 "Now, git inter line ergin; it looks like you'll 
 
 i88 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 never learn anything. Why, dammit, gentlemen, 
 you almost make me swear !" 
 
 After much confusion they again got into line. 
 
 **Now, gentlemen," he continued, "please 
 recollect an' don't fergit. Be very careful. 
 When I say march, why, move off ; if I say trot, 
 why, jes' trot ; if I say gallop, why, jes' gallop. 
 This milertary business ain't nothin' but common 
 sense rigged up with a sword an' a cocked hat. 
 Everything is plain, an' don't fergit it, nor to 
 keep your toes turned out!" 
 
 "We won't. Colonel," came from the com- 
 pany. " Do let us git off — it's nearly sundown.'* 
 
 "Well, then, forward, march F* and after a 
 good deal of spurring and clucking some of the 
 company moved off and the others gradually fol- 
 lowed suit, a sight to behold, since every animal 
 in it had a gait peculiar to its breed and the wear 
 and tear of the plow. Some went fast, some 
 slow ; some paced and others trotted. The rear 
 rank ran into the front line, while the flanks be- 
 came detached from the main body and struck off 
 in a separate bunch, headed for the bar-room. 
 The rest of the line was in a zig-zag condition, 
 and its path would have been the line of a worm 
 fence moving to the gate as an objective point. 
 At this point some one left the gate of Cooper's 
 stable yard open, and the colts came tearing out, 
 whinnying and rushing into lines, hunting for their 
 respective dams. These came to a dead halt, with 
 
 189 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 many signs of satisfaction and motherly proceed- 
 ings. 
 
 Now, the Colonel was a man of wonderful re- 
 sources and intuitive forethought. He saw that 
 the military would have to succumb to the civil 
 unless something was done, and that very 
 quickly, to maintain the dignity of the former. 
 It was evident that Mars must give way to Venus, 
 and that without the formality of ceremony. To 
 one less gifted than the Colonel, the day's drill 
 would have ended in confusion and disgrace. 
 Not so with him. Riding to the front, with a look 
 on his face as if he had expected all this and it 
 was a part of his program, he issued a command 
 never before heard in military science — nay, not 
 even in the Mexican war. Rising in his stirrups, 
 he shouted, in his deepest voice : 
 
 *' Halt, and suckle colts !" 
 
 This seemed to please everybody, including 
 the colts, after which the company took a drink 
 around and rode off to their homes, thoroughly 
 satisfied they knew all that was necessary for 
 cavalry to learn. 
 
 190 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 THE TRUE SINGER. 
 
 I STARTED out for my usual drive the other 
 evening, and the first thing I drove into 
 was a stratum — no, a flood — of melody. I pulled 
 up quickly and looked all around. I could hear 
 it but I could not see the musician. It seemed to 
 come from everywhere. I knew the rascal that 
 was making it, and the white oak tree he was in, 
 but the mocking bird, like all true singers, is so 
 unpretentious in his make-up, and so near the 
 color of nature generally, that I could scarcely 
 tell him from the big, honest limb he was sitting 
 on. And I knew well enough, too, why his 
 music seemed to come from everywhere — he 
 drew it from everywhere, and he never pours it 
 out twice in the same direction. Ah, he is the 
 true singer ! Watch him just now a minute and 
 see. While his little gray throat swells and puffs 
 and rolls like miniature bellows, and his tiny 
 eyes, **in a fine frenzy rolling, *' dart about here 
 and there, now at the earth and now at the 
 heavens above him, notice how his little head 
 
 191 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 moves from side to side, pouring his song in every 
 direction, and varying it to suit every new and 
 beautiful sight that flashes across the retina of 
 the tiny sentinels in his eyes. It is almost comi- 
 cal to see how earnest he is — not to sing, but to 
 sing of some new thing. And so he " doth glance 
 from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth," 
 and involuntarily he pours out the impression 
 that he sees. 
 
 "You are the true singer, old fellow," I said, 
 as my heart welled up at the lesson he was teach- 
 ing me, and I pulled off my hat in his presence. 
 "You are the true singer. Spring is glorious, 
 but you are not singing of spring until your spring 
 song is a spring joke among the other birds. The 
 heavens are blue but you don't dwell on them 
 always. The fields are green and sunshiny and 
 beautiful, but only a glint of them has crept into 
 your music. Your mate died in the terrible freeze 
 of last winter, and that tender flutter of crape in 
 your song was just enough to draw us to you. 
 Had you hung out your black flag, as some folks 
 do who imagine they are mourning thereby for the 
 dead, or had you poured your misery between 
 me and the sunshine, I would ride on and tell you 
 to go and mate with a blackbird. But O, what a 
 singer you are ! A little of the fields, a gleam 
 from the air, a glint from the sunshine and a glow 
 of the skies. A memory of a dead love, a tiny 
 bit of mocking humor, a quaint shaft of musical 
 
 192 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 satire, a withering take-off on some catbird who 
 thinks he, too, is a singer and has tried to imitate 
 you, and a jolly laugh at the foibles of man. 
 Twinkles, jests, raptures, dreams ; dances, 
 songs, brooks, flowers ; sermons, poems, music, 
 stars — and all of it — heaven ! 
 
 And before I had time to tire, he dropped off 
 the limb in an ecstasy of delight, singing all the 
 time, and, sweeping in long curves just over my 
 head, he flew up the shaded pike till his varia- 
 tions died away in the distance. 
 
 13 193 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 HOW THE BISHOP BROKE THE RECORD. 
 
 (Old Wash is a Baptist, and it was with great 
 difficulty and many misgivings that I induced him 
 to go out to the Episcopal church recently and hear 
 the Bishop of Tennessee preach. The old man 
 went wild over the sermon, and this is the 
 peculiar way he took to tell about it.)* 
 
 " '\ 1 TAL, sah, I went in dar an' sot down in dat 
 VV part ob de gran' stand set off fur de 
 colored folks. I look erroun' an' seed leetle ban- 
 nisters an' things runnin' 'round 'bout de prooties' 
 an' neates' mile track you eber seed, wid de 
 fence all painted wid gold an' lit up wid 'lectric 
 lights. Beautiful pictures hung up in de club house 
 gallery an' de soft light cum in through de painted 
 winders. I tell yo', sah, dese yere Piscolopiums 
 kno' how to keep dey church track, ef dey do stick 
 
 * To avoid any impression of disrespect I may say that 
 my friend, the actual Bishop of Tennessee, has expressed 
 his personal enjoyment of this stor>\— J. T. M. 
 
 194 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 to de high wheel sulky, an' kinder think dat er re- 
 cord made dar, at dat way ob gwine, will 'title 'em 
 to registration in de final year book quickern enny 
 yudder track. An' it wuz ergood un — fer it run 
 erroun'es smooth es er widder's courtship, an' it 
 hed bin harrered an' scraped an' rolled till it wuz 
 es slick es er carpet ob banana peels. 
 
 **Yo' ain't nurver noticed how dese church 
 tracks differ f rum one er nudder, hes yo', Boss?" 
 asked the old man, with a sly smile. ** Wal, dey 
 do. Now, ef dat hed bin er Mefodis track it 
 wouldn't er hed no fence erroun' it, kinder free 
 fur all, no money to be paid at de gate an' free 
 lunch fur ebrybody. Ef it had bin a Baptis' track 
 it would er bin out in some big medder bottom, 
 an' stid ob bein' roun', it would jes' toiler de 
 meanderins ob de ribber, handy fur spungin' off 
 de bosses. An' dey wouldn't 'low nuffin' to go 
 on dat track but pacers, either, an' dey fnust all 
 be ob de Hal fambly — kinder close kin, yer kno*. 
 De Presberterians would er had dey track es 
 'roun' es it cud be, an' sech er high, whitewashed 
 fence 'roun' it dat nobody cud see ober it, an' 
 'bout ebry haf hour dey would run out er big fo'- 
 hoss sprinkler, furever sprinklin' an' sprinklin' 
 it, eben fur de yearlin' races. O, it's funny ter 
 see how dey all deffer," he said. 
 
 " But dar dis one wuz, es prooty es it cud be, 
 an' free fur all. An' jes' off to de lef dey had 
 de nices' leetle jedges' stan' all painted in silver 
 
 195 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 an' trimmed wid gold, while de timers* box sat on 
 de right wid leetle peep holes in it an' pictures ob 
 flyin' things wid wings jes' erbove — bosses dat had 
 broken de recurds, I spec. Jes' den de ban' in de 
 ban' Stan' struck up de sweetes' music I urver 
 heurd. It went all through my soul an' made me 
 feel like I wuz er chile ergin an' my good ole mam- 
 my, long dead an' gone, wuz singin' me ter sleep at 
 de cabin on de ole plantashun, to de tune ob * De 
 ole folks at home.' Den de perfume floated out 
 like de smell ob de jess'mins 1 useter smell by de 
 cabin do', an' de candles flickered on de quarter 
 posts like de fireflies in de dusk ob my childhood 
 days, an' all dese things jes' made me hongry to 
 heah sum good gospil ergin. Bimeby, sum leetle 
 angel boys all dressed in white wid shinin' col- 
 lars cum marchin' in singin' an' bringin' programs 
 fur de races in dey ban's — leastwise dat's whut I 
 tuk 'em to be. I tell yo', sah, it wuz gran', an' 
 es I sot dar an' tuck it all in an' looked at dat 
 shinin' track wid de golden fence, 1 sed to 
 myself : 
 
 ** * Great Scott ! but ef dey can't go fas* on dis 
 track I lakter kno' whut de yuse ob tryin' enny 
 yudder !' 
 
 *' When de music stopped de feller in de jedges' 
 stan' made some 'nouncements an' den he 'lowed 
 dat de Bishop ob Tennessee would go er exer- 
 bishun mile ergin time, an' den I heurd de bell 
 ring tingerling, tingerling, an' de ban' struck up 
 
 196 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 lively lak, an* de Bishop cum pacin' in. Soon as 
 I looked at Mm, sez I : 
 
 ** * Ue'W do — he's er good un ! Got mos' too 
 much riggin' on 'im to suit my taste, but den 
 ebry man knows whut's bes' fur his own boss. 
 Ef he wuz mine I'd take off dat sweater an' white 
 blankit wid red embroidery, dem knee boots an* 
 dat obercheck. His gait's all right an' true es 
 clockwork, an' he don't need nuffm' but er pair 
 ob quarter boots an' fo'-ounce shoes. But dat's 
 all right,' I sed ergin, ' eberybody knows whut's 
 bes' fur his own boss an' dem fancy riggins am 
 prooty, ter-be-sho'.' 
 
 "Graceful ? He wuz es graceful es er swan 
 on er silver lake, an' es he paced up de quarter 
 stretch to sco' down, I seed dat he wuz gwinter 
 gib de recurd er close call. Down he cum so 
 smooth yo'cudden'tsee his riggin', an' es nachul 
 es er eagle draps frum his mountin peak in de 
 valley belo'. Dey didn't hafter say * go ' to him 
 but onc't, an' den he went erway lak er winged 
 angel on de top spar ob er flyin' yot. 
 
 " ' He that loseth his life for my sake shall save 
 it,' he said, an' ebry lick he hit went home to de 
 ole man's hart. O, hit wuz er clip. He tuck up 
 Greek art an' literachure, an' he painted it so 
 beautiful yo' cud see de statue ob Diana beam 
 outen his eyes an' de grace ob Apollo fall frum 
 his hands. Away he went at dat prooty clip till 
 he sud'n'y shifted his gait an' struck de follies ob 
 
 197 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 dis wurl, an' den 1 seed whut all dat riggin' wuz 
 fur, fur he turned it into er toga an' he looked 
 lak Jupiter es he shook de roof wid his speed an' 
 his stride. 
 
 *"He's gwine too fast fur de fus' quarter/ I 
 sed, es I sot holdin' my bref ; but befo' de wurds 
 wuz out he seed it, too, an' he check up er leetle 
 an' he cum down es gently es de summer winds 
 play — but ergitten' dar all de time ! — an' den he 
 tell us how all dis art an' all dis interlect want 
 nuffin' ef we didn't lub God an' do right an' lib 
 pure libes, an' his voice wuz lak de music ob de 
 winds in de valley, an' ebrything he say jes' 
 peer to be dat way an' no argyment — an' all de 
 time he wuz jes' ergitten' dar — an' es he passed 
 de fus' quarter I cudden't help it, I jes' tuck out 
 my ole watch an' snapped it, an' dar it stood — 30 
 seconds, holy Moses ! 
 
 ** But dat didn't wind 'im, fer he started in de 
 naixt quarter so fas' I thout sho' he gwine fly in 
 de air. But he didn't. He fairly burnt up de 
 track ob sin an' folly an' littleness an' meanness, 
 an' he made de leetle rail birds ob selfishness fly 
 to de woods, an' de gamblers ob society went off 
 to hedge, an' de touts ob scandal slunk erway, 
 an' de drivers ob trick an' cheat hunted for er- 
 nuther track, an' de timers ob folly throwd erway 
 dey watch — an' all de time he wuz ergittin dar — 
 an' he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot 
 nur missed his clip, an' he made de ole high wheel 
 
 198 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 sulky trimble all over lak er leaf in de storm, an' 
 he showed how eberbody reap whut dey sow ; 
 how de artis' lib in art, an' de po-it in po- 
 itry, an* de patriot in de harts ob his countrymen, 
 all arter dey dun dead an' buried. * An' O,* he 
 sed, so sarchin' lak I see de folks trimble, * ef 
 yo' lib fur de wurl yo'll die wid de wurl ; but ef 
 yo' lib fur God yo'll nurver die.' An' I cud see 
 it all so plain an' so quick an' so terribul an' 30 
 true I jes' pulled out my ole timer ergin es he 
 passed de haf, an' click ! dar she stood — 595^ ! 
 
 " * By de horn ob de Tabbernacle,' sez I, * he 
 can't keep up dat clip ! Dat's de haf dat burnt 
 up Joe Patchen !' 
 
 '* But I tell yo', Boss, his name wuz P'inter — 
 he had no noshun ob quittin'. He spun erlong 
 on de straight stretches lak he had er runnin' 
 mate, an' yo'd wonder whut hilt 'im to de yearth, 
 den he ease up gently on de turns ob de track — 
 whar he hit de doubters an' de 'siety an' de fools 
 ' dat grasp at de bubbles ob wealth an' folly on 
 de ribber, an' let de mighty stream wid all its 
 depth an' grandeur pass onnoticed to de ocean ' 
 — es he sed, he ease up dar an' ketch his bref so 
 gently lak, an' sorrerful yo'd think he gwine stop 
 an' weep fur 'em, an' yo' feel lak weepin' yore- 
 se'f, fur yore own follies an' de follies ob dewurl 
 — but all de time he wuz gittin' dar ! — an' ef he 
 did ease up es he went up de hill, it wuz only jes* 
 long enuf ter let de light shine down on him frum 
 
 199 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 heben, an' he seemed to linger jes' er minnit in 
 de sweetnes' ob its glory. 
 
 "I wiped erway a tear an' snapped my ole 
 timer ergin — 1:30}^ I ' Dat's good Baptis' doc- 
 trine,' sez I, ' ef it am a trifle speedy. Lord, ef 
 he do bust de recurd I hope yo'll gib 'im de At- 
 lantic ocean to spunge off in — sumpin' in keepin' 
 wid his own nachur.' An' den I close my eyes 
 gently lak, I feel so good, an' I sing softly to my- 
 sef dat good ole hymn, sung by Moses an* de 
 profets so long ergo : 
 
 *' * Baptis', Baptis' is my name 
 
 I'm Baptis' till I die. 
 I've been baptized in de Baptis' church, 
 Gwin'ter eat all de Baptis' pie ! 
 
 Hard trials. 
 Great tribelashuns, chilluns, 
 
 Hard trials, 
 I'm gwine ter leab dis wurl.' 
 
 " But bless yo', honey, he wuz jes' playin' on 
 dem yudder quarters ; he commenced ter pace 
 now. He got right down on de groun', an' dough 
 he didn't make no fuss an' yo' cudn't see er 
 moshun, nur eben de spokes ob de sulky, he 
 talked lak er dyin' muther ter her wayward boy. 
 He scorned de track ob dis wurl an' seemed ter 
 be pacin' in de pure air ob God, an' yit he didn't 
 rouse er angry wind, nur bring out deloud shouts 
 frum de wurldy gran' stan', nur de hoozars ob 
 
 200 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 victory, nor de wild frenzy ob delight — but jes' 
 tears, sweet tears. I cried lak er baby. I furgot 
 ter time 'im. De soft light cum in frum de win- 
 der ob God an' got inter de winder ob de ole man's 
 hart. De smell ob de yearthly flowers wuz 
 turned to Heabenly ones, an' when his soft, 
 'pealin' voice died away an' de sweet 'pealin' 
 music commenced, I cudn't tell whar de sermin 
 ended an' de music begun, dey run togedder so. 
 I sot in er sort ob er dream ; I wanted ter go ter 
 Heaben ; I heurd de white folks all pass quietly 
 out ; I heurd de notes ob de organ die erway, but 
 I sot in de cornder, way off by mysef, an' thanked 
 God dat I'd seed de light an' heurd de recurd ob 
 salvation busted." 
 
 20I 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 FIRST MONDAY IN TENNESSEE. 
 
 LAST Monday was " First Monday" in Ten- 
 nessee, and if you have ever been in a 
 Tennessee town on that eventful day in April, 
 you will know what it means without any further 
 description. I hope you have, because it cannot 
 be accurately described except by sight — and the 
 looker-on, to do it justice, should have as many 
 eyes lying around loose upon him, and decking 
 his terminal facilities, as the famous Argus of old. 
 For this is the day of the year to the average 
 citizen of the Volunteer State. On that day, 
 every owner of a lordly stallion, every obstreper- 
 ous breeder of a dulcet-toned jack, every proud 
 possessor of a cantankerous bull with clay on his 
 horns and cockleburs in his tail (I am referring 
 to the bull, of course) is expected to be out with 
 his family and his friends, to show the kind of live 
 stock on which he has pinned his faith. And 
 they are all there. 
 
 Tennessee was admitted into the Union June 
 I, 1796, and, so far as I have been able to learn, 
 
 202 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 this time-honored day was admitted with her. 
 In fact, 1 think it was tacitly understood at the 
 time, that, whether the state obtained certain 
 representatives in Congress or not, whether the 
 boundary ended with the Mississippi or the Ten- 
 nessee, whether the Indian lands should be 
 bought up or not, all of these might be decided as 
 the National Congress should decree ; but if 
 ** First Monday" couldn't come in, in the lan- 
 guage of old Hickory, "By the eternal, boys, 
 we'll stay out of the little old Union till she grows 
 big enough to take in our First Monday." But, 
 happily, no opposition was offered, and to-day 
 Tennesseans would fight for ''First Monday" 
 quicker than they would for the privilege of brew- 
 ing the mountain corn juice under the shadowy 
 cliffs of the Big Smoky. 
 
 For what, indeed, would life be worth to the 
 horse-loving Tennessean, if deprived of the privi- 
 lege of showing off, on the first Monday of each 
 April, his pacing stallion, decked with enough red 
 blankets to cover the nakedness of darkest Africa, 
 and with halter and reins sufficiently strong to 
 anchor a man-of-war at sea ? Bonaparte, cross- 
 ing the Alps on his restless war-horse (as a mat- 
 ter of fact, it was a mule, the chiefest product 
 of middle Tennessee, but I use "restless war- 
 horse" for poetical effect), and looking down 
 upon the plains of Italy, was not so proud and 
 happy as is the average Tennessean in the horse 
 
 203 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 parade around the Court House square, holding 
 his mettlesome roan pacer in check and proudly 
 proclaiming to the gaping crowd around him : 
 '* Yes, boys, this is a Tom Hal !'* 
 
 ** First Monday '* is founded on a simple and 
 beautiful custom so old that its origin is lost in the 
 haze of those who came first over the mountains 
 to settle in the beautiful Wautaga valley. I have 
 taken great pains to look up this matter and get 
 at the origin of it. And you will never guess, 
 gentle reader, how it really started. Be not sur- 
 prised, then, when I solemnly proclaim to you 
 that the festive ground-hog is the father of the 
 whole business — the ground-hog with his incom- 
 parable weather bureau department ! 
 
 "Pray explain yourself," I hear you say. 
 *' How could so simple an animal as a ground-hog 
 originate such a time-honored custom as an an- 
 nual stock parade on ' First Monday ?' " 
 
 It is simple enough. To begin with, Tennes- 
 see has always banked on the ground-hog as a 
 weather prophet — the Tennessee Ground-Hog 
 Weather Department is far older than Uncle 
 Sam's, and I might as well add, far more reliable. 
 In the Tennessee department the ground-hog is 
 the chief of the bureau ; he makes but one 
 prophecy a year and he never misses it ; whereas 
 the bureau at Washington makes one every day 
 and generally retires at night with the sin of Ana- 
 nias tacked to its official skirts, predicting rain on 
 
 204 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 the threshold of a Pharaoh famine, and prepar- 
 ing us for a "long, dry drought " about the time 
 the heavens declare the curtain will now arise on 
 the Noah and the Ark act. 
 
 But what about the ground-hog ? It is plain 
 enough. On the second day of February he 
 emerges from his hole in the ground to see if he 
 can cast a shadow. If he can cast a shadow he 
 solemnly goes back into his hole to remain six 
 full weeks — which is his way of declaring that 
 ** bad weather and hell ginerally is gwinter be to 
 pay till de fuss Monday in April." But if the sky 
 be cloudy that second day of February when he 
 emerges, and he cannot casta shadow, the official 
 declaration goes forth that an early spring and 
 bright days are to follow. Now do not jump at 
 the conclusion, kind reader, that the Tennessee 
 ground-hog ever gets so poor that he cannot cast 
 a shadow if the sun be shining. Far be it from 
 my intention to intimate any such thing. The 
 Tennessee ground-hog, like everything else in 
 this hog and hominy state, is abundantly able to 
 cast any number of shadows. The term is used 
 metaphorically, and is but another way of saying 
 that the ground-hog emerges from his hole to see 
 whether or not the sun is shining. 
 
 Now, if the sun be shining on that second day 
 of February, as aforesaid, he goes back into his 
 hole to remain there for six long weeks, and 
 nothing under heaven but an earthquake with a 
 
 205 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 geyser attachment can get him out. There he 
 will remain though the heavens fall, or his 
 mother-in-law pays him a visit. And all the men, 
 women and children in Tennessee accept his 
 decision and prepare to keep on their winter flan- 
 nels as per order of this absolutely reliable 
 authority. Was ever anything more simple and 
 plain and absolutely inexpensive ? And the 
 beauty of it is, it has never been known to lie — 
 it is truth itself, decked in homespun and a wool 
 hat ; it is Washington with a bible in one hand 
 and a pair of hatchets in the other. W^e com- 
 mend it to the department at Washington ! 
 
 But let us proceed with the research that 
 brought us up to the origin of '' First Monday." 
 The connecting link is plain enough. After con- 
 sulting many ancient volumes, we have dis- 
 covered that originally, in the early history of the 
 state, the First Monday in April, a day now en- 
 tirely devoted to the display of live stock, was a 
 kind of feast day in the temple of Ground-Hog- 
 ium, celebrated in honor of the termination of the 
 Ground-Hog's potent prophecy. As time went 
 on and people began to use the pacing horse as a 
 means of reaching the county site to participate 
 in the festivities, great interest began to be man- 
 ifested by those who were bold enough to " ride 
 a critter " (when they might just as well walk) 
 in the various animals collected in the town. This 
 interest gradually grew, strengthened by a horse 
 
 206 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 race now and then, and sustained by the lauda- 
 ble desire in the breast of every patriotic Tennes- 
 sean to see that his family relic of a horse, afflicted 
 with every disease from Bright*s to "that tired 
 feeling,*' died the property of some unsophisti- 
 cated countryman. In this way the custom was 
 gradually changed from Ground-Hog worship to 
 horse swapping, from a religious festival to the 
 intricate diplomacy of lying about one's horse. 
 And so it remains to this day. 
 
 How often does history repeat itself. The 
 Druidical worship of our old forefathers in the 
 woods of Britain was the forerunner of the true 
 worship of to-day ; and from the woods of Ten- 
 nessee, around the sacred temple of the priestly 
 Ground-Hog has emanated the beautiful custom 
 of ** First Monday." 
 
 On the day in question, the pikes are fairly 
 alive with folks, peoples, horses, jacks and nig- 
 gers. Observe the order in which I name these, 
 kind reader ; for that order is the order in which 
 they stand socially in Tennessee. Observe also, 
 if you please, that I make a distinction between 
 peoples and folks — folks being those who own a 
 pacing horse and are able to drive or ride to town ; 
 while peoples are merely common plugs who must 
 walk. Peoples are further divided, I might as 
 well tell, — because the distinction is quite import- 
 ant in Tennessee — into three classes : those who 
 are able to wear shoes and stockings, those who 
 
 207 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 have shoes but no stockings, and those who go 
 barefooted. You may think this is foolish and 
 unnecessary distinction, but allow me to inform 
 you it is based on one of the most beautiful cus- 
 toms of the unwritten law of Middle Tennessee 
 and one which is very closely observed in the 
 state. For, when '*all hands" have reached 
 the classic town of Columbia, for instance, their 
 first duty is to repair to the nearest bar for a 
 drink, and here it is that the distinction between 
 the folks and the three classes of peoples is so 
 nicely drawn. When a portly gentleman of the 
 first class walks in, his face shining behind a 
 silver grey mustache, no question is asked, but 
 the best in the house is set up. He's folks. But 
 when one of the other class walks in, the bar- 
 keeper peeps over the counter to observe his foot 
 gear. If he has on shoes and stockings, the bar- 
 keeper knows his purse will stand Lincoln 
 County's Medium ; if he has on shoes but no 
 stockings, apple brandy from the county of War- 
 ren, smelling of Tarn O'Shanter's midnight ride, 
 is set out ; but if, in looking over the counter, 
 the barkeeper's eyes meet the sprawling flabbi- 
 ness of two po' -white feet, bust-head at five cents 
 a glass is what he wants. In no case is any 
 question asked except, **How are you shod, 
 partner ?" 
 
 Was ever anything more simple ? 
 
 And so they come on ** First Monday," — all 
 
 208 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 bound for Columbia. The country cousin rides 
 his pacing stallion with a darkey bringing up the 
 rear leading an ambling ass and interrupting his 
 assship's repeated endeavors to keehonky kee- 
 honk every now and then by a vigorous jerking 
 of his bit, much to the disgust of that classic 
 animal. Two young bucks fly by in a buck- 
 board drawn by a slick pacer that has given 
 everybody's team the dust since they left Spring 
 Hill. 
 
 **Say, nigger, whose jack is that .?'* they yell 
 out as they pass. 
 
 '* Captain Jackson, sah," is the answer amid a 
 display of ivory — caused by the implied compli- 
 ment to his charge. 
 
 ** Fine feller," they shout back, ''we're fur 
 him for the legislature " — but whether they 
 mean the ass or the master, deponent sayeth 
 not, merely remarking that, so far as the person- 
 ality of the Tennessee legislature is concerned, it 
 is ** a difference without a distinction." 
 
 They are all there, *'goin' to Columbia !" 
 
 Every old lady who has a hank of yarn for sale, 
 is there. Every pretty girl, showing unmistak- 
 able evidence of being fixed up for the occasion, 
 with too much powder over her natural roses and 
 a well-I-don't-feel-exactly-kinder-easy-in-these- 
 stays kind of look, is there. Every urchin who 
 can bring a dozen eggs in his hat and his pockets, 
 is there. All from the rich farmer behind his 
 14 209 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 spanking surrey team, to the old darkey on his 
 load of stove wood ; from the well-to-do farmer 
 with his wife and happy children, the latter look- 
 ing a little unnatural in the solemnity that has 
 come over them by reason of the startling, novel 
 and astonishing fact that they, too, are at last 
 **goin' to Columbia," to the poor cropper on his 
 mule — they are all in the procession ! The man 
 with his patent ; the officer with his papers ; that 
 most detested of living men, the back-tax col- 
 lector ; the man who wants to hire ; the book 
 agent ; the '* nigger " with a grin on his face and 
 game rooster under his arm — they are all there, 
 " gwine to Columbia." On the square all is 
 hustle, stir, squeaking, snorting, cackling, flying, 
 braying, jostling, arguing. 
 
 But allow me to digress right here, and ex- 
 plain to you what **the square " means. There 
 are two kinds of *' squares" in Tennessee — 
 ** Square" Jones and the Court House square. 
 The latter is the square 1 refer to. It is really 
 but the meeting of four broad streets, around the 
 temple of justice, where all the trade and traffick- 
 ing is done. In Columbia this temple of justice 
 is a most ancient and dilapidated structure, built 
 with so little regard for architectural rules that the 
 oldest inhabitant has never yet been able to tell 
 which one of its sides was intended for the front ; 
 but as it was in this building that Andrew Jack- 
 son stirred his partisans, and James K. Polk was 
 
 2IO 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 wont to practice law, the citizens of the county 
 would not exchange it for a duplication of the 
 classic Parthenon. Around it they assemble to 
 barter, to trade and to swap horses. Now, when 
 people assemble to swap horses, you know what 
 follows. And why they should have selected 
 their temple of justice around which to do their 
 lying, is more than I can tell. My private opinion 
 is that the horny-fisted horse swapper believed 
 he had as much right to lie around the ground 
 floor of the temple as the lawyer had on the sec- 
 ond floor. 
 
 A big fellow with a catfish mouth, chin whisk- 
 ers and a bald head is mounted on a wagon 
 preaching free salvation to a crowd that looks 
 like they thought it was a mighty long time 
 between drinks ; two darkies have met on a cor- 
 ner and are discussing the efficacy of baptism, 
 while numbers of their dusky partisans, standing 
 around, now and then exclaim, *'Dat's de truf, 
 amen !" A man rushes to a door at a corner 
 of the Square and rings vigorously a big dinner 
 bell. It is a sign that he wants to feed them all 
 at his restaurant. There are four corners to 
 every square, and soon a bell is clanging at each 
 of the other three corners, to let the world know 
 the first fellow hadn't all the dinner. 
 
 The parade of live stock is now formed and 
 comes down the road — a long line of glistening 
 flanks, arching necks, prancing steps, mincing 
 
 211 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 gaits, whinnies, nickers, snorts, bellows and 
 brays in semi-hemi-demi-quavers, beginning with 
 Brown Hal and Duplex, and ending with Plum- 
 mer Webster and Tax Payer. 
 
 They are all there — ** gwine to Columbia." 
 A twenty-foot track is made in the living crowd 
 around the Court House square and half a hun- 
 dred flying pacers are showing their gaits, while 
 the chancellor leaves his bench and the lawyers 
 their cases to look out of the windows. Across 
 the street a bell is ringing at a store, and proclaims 
 that the ladies of a certain church are giving a 
 lunch to pay off the church debt ; an auctioneer 
 is howling away, trying to sell a ten-dollar buggy 
 for twenty-five dollars ; a man with a patent 
 blacking, warranted to shine forever, is blacking 
 the boots of all who will come to his stand ; a big 
 jack brays in your ear while you are looking at 
 a dog fight under a wagon ; an apple wagon, 
 all the way from the *' State of Lawrence," is 
 selling the rosy fruit left and right. 
 
 Elbow your way through the crowd on the 
 square and you will laugh at the fragments of 
 conversation you hear as you pass — " No, no, no, 
 the wheat crop's boun' ter be a failure" — "Is 
 Sally raelly done married at last ? Who — " 
 '* Fine as he kin be — sound in wind, limb an' eye 
 — fust dam by Tom Hal, second dam by Pinter's 
 Slasher — " " Git out, nigger ; who is you, 
 enny how ?" " Keehonk^ keehonk, keehonk, keehecy 
 
 212 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 keehee, keehee-e-eow /'* ** No, no, Majah, the fun- 
 damental principles of the Democratic party — " 
 **Goin*, goin^ gone — sold fur twenty-five cents 
 to the red-headed gentleman with a wart on 
 his—'' 
 
 You never stop to learn where the wart is, for 
 as you pass your attention is attracted to a vacant 
 lot where a darkey is selling, to those who have 
 money to buy, a cart load of Duck river catfish 
 and buffalo, while behind the cart, in the vacant 
 lot, a negro dance is in full swing. You stop to 
 listen, for the fiddler, inspired by the music of his 
 fiddle and the muse of inspiration, has rhymed in 
 his calls to music, and, keeping time with his feet 
 to the flying bow, sings out in his peculiar chant : 
 
 Great big fat man down in de corne. 
 Dance to de gal wid de blue dress on her ; 
 You little bit er feller widout eny vest 
 Dance to de gal in de caliker dress. 
 Git up, Jake, an' turn your partner, 
 Shake dem feet as you kno' you 'orter ; 
 You little red nigger wid de busted back 
 Git up an' gin us de ** chicken rack." 
 All hands round — O, step lite, ladies, 
 Don't fling yer feet so fur in de shadies ; 
 Come, you one-eyed nigger, fling 
 Dem feet an' gib us de ** pigeon wing.** 
 Such is a faint idea of ''First Monday in Ten- 
 
 nessee.'* 
 
 213 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 YESTERDAY. 
 
 THE old man tottered out to the pasture. He 
 was eighty years old. 
 
 **How difficult it is for me to walk now,*' he 
 said, as he shuffled unsteadily along, **and how 
 it tires me to go but to the pasture gate ! And 
 where," he said, as he turned his whole body 
 feebly around to look at an object behind — as old 
 age is wont to do when the muscles have become 
 stiffened in the neck — ** and where are the blue 
 hills I used to see over there where the clouds and 
 the sunset loved to linger, and the gray mists rose 
 from the valleys like the breath of day to the 
 skies above ? Are they there yet ? I cannot 
 see them." 
 
 **They are all there, grandpa," said the little 
 boy who accompanied him. ''They reach all 
 around and around and around, and they are 
 brown here," said he, pointing with an emphatic 
 finger, "and blue yonder, and bluer further on, 
 and, yes — further still — O, I can't tell whether 
 it's clouds or hills, they run together so! But, 
 O, grandpa, I know that tree we just can see on 
 
 214 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 top of that far, far away hill ! That's Grundy's 
 big poplar, and I went there once and saw a wild 
 pigeon's nest on the first limb, and I played in 
 the branch that ran at the foot of the hill, and I 
 brought home wild grapes ! O, grandpa," glee- 
 fully, '* let's run over there now and see if 
 they are all there, and have some fun ! Do, 
 grandpa !" 
 
 The old man sighed and shuffled feebly along. 
 
 "Alas!" he said. ''But yesterday I went 
 there myself, and went with my mother, and I 
 saw the bird's nest and played in the brook, and 
 my mother was beautiful and happy. That was 
 yesterday — only yesterday. To-day I feel tired. 
 To-morrow I shall rest." 
 
 He reached the bars. A horse came up to the 
 fence. He was sightless, and his sunken back 
 indicated extreme age. The old man put out his 
 hand over the bars to rub the horse's nose, but 
 the strained position made his fingers dance un- 
 certainly over the animal's face, and he drew back 
 his hand because he could not hold his arm still. 
 
 "What horse is this ?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, grandpa! Don't you know Old 
 Whip ? " said the boy. 
 
 The old man looked hurt. "Old Whip," he 
 repeated, absently. "Old Whip. Why, yes- 
 terday, only yesterday, I called him Whip- 
 Young Whip. And I stood right here at these 
 bars and caught him and put your grandmother's 
 
 215 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 saddle on him — she was forty then and hand- 
 some, and your mother was five, with eyes like 
 yours — and they rode Young Whip, and I rode 
 by their side, and I laughed in my strength and 
 happiness, and we rode to the upper place and 
 gathered apples from the orchard, and picnicked 
 in the woods and rode back in the evening, and I 
 kissed them both and lifted them from the saddle 
 and turned Whip in here only yesterday evening. 
 But one night has passed — but one." 
 
 The little boy looked puzzled. ** Why, grandpa, 
 mother died when I was a baby. And grandma 
 — I never saw her. That couldn't have been 
 yesterday !" 
 
 "Yes, yesterday, my son — yesterday — be- 
 cause I have forgotten all else that came between 
 it and to-day. It was yesterday — yesterday, for 
 I remember it. Yesterday, twenty-five years 
 ago ! Men time things wrong, my son. Our 
 real time is from memory to memory — from hap- 
 piness to happiness. But let us go in. 1 want to 
 kiss my wife and the baby. I want to kiss them 
 to-day, for to-morrow I shall rest — yes, we shall 
 all rest." 
 
 And the little boy sadly led him in. 
 
 216 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 THE JULIET OF THE GRASSES. 
 
 I AM almost afraid to tell you people how beau- 
 tiful the world is down here now, for fear 
 you will not ibelieve it. If I had lived in the age 
 of the Aryan fire worshipers, or the Chaldean 
 star worshipers, or the Greek and Roman wind 
 and sun and cloud and hero worshipers, I would 
 not have worshiped any of these things ; but, in 
 ignorance of the true God, I think I would have 
 knelt down and kissed the grass. Blue grass 
 comes nearer to God than anything in the world. 
 The sun is too bright and the stars are too far off 
 and the wind and clouds too uncertain and intangi- 
 ble ; but grass, sweet blue-grass is with us, and 
 soothes the eye as far as we can see, and rests 
 the heart and the brain, and says, as plain as 
 language can say it : ** Look at me, for I am a 
 type of immortality." It is so natural and yet so 
 grand, so heart-stirring and yet so soothing, so 
 simple and yet so beautiful. 
 
 There are only two things in the world that 
 hurt me worse than to see little children suffer : 
 
 217 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 one is to see some ruthless fool plow up a grass 
 lot ; the other is to see the same person cut down 
 a tree. I almost hate the man that will wantonly 
 do these things. 
 
 For the tree seems to me to be endowed with 
 a personality and a soul. Some, I know, are 
 bright and joyous, and love to live and would 
 consort with their kind ; while others are sad and 
 lonely and take life hard. And the grass — well, 
 it is a mighty myriad army of little green peoples 
 who love to grow and frolic and look pretty and 
 do good. You may not know it, but it is I 
 
 O, we have just begun to live in this world. 
 We are in our very infancy — a lot of thick-headed, 
 bad-tempered, selfish little apes who think we 
 know it all, and that we are great and wise and 
 are living as God intended us to live. But if 
 we could only look ahead and see what the true 
 race is going to be a million years hence ! We 
 will be less than the Cliff Dwellers to them. 
 They will have stepped along to infinite heights 
 over generations of progress, and do you know 
 what I believe the great characteristic of the 
 perfect man will be ? He will recognize life 
 wherever he sees it — in stone, in tree, in grass, 
 bird, animal and man. All things will be alive 
 to him, and he will respect every poor little life 
 that lives, and the rights of every little insignifi- 
 cant thing which we Ape-men now crush beneath 
 our feet. And he will love everything that God 
 
 218 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 has made, and will lie down with the grass, and 
 will kiss the flowers as he would children, and 
 will lean on the tree for support as he would a 
 strong brother. And as for taking a human life, 
 or thinkingan evil thought, it will have been bred 
 out of him long ago ! 
 
 I would not like to live in a country where the 
 blue grass did not grow. Somehow or other I 
 have begun to associate it with the idea of divine 
 good will — that God has sent it as a special sign 
 of His favor and esteem, and that those unfor- 
 tunate countries where it does not grow, while 
 not exactly under the ban of His displeasure, yet 
 do they stand in a kind of Esau, as compared to 
 Jacob, relationship with Him. For that reason I 
 dislike to see it plowed up, and when I see the 
 cold steel going through its shimmering sod, and 
 turning the long, black furrows up where heav- 
 en's own carpet lay before, I feel as if it is burying 
 a thousand little fairy friends I knew and loved. 
 
 Perhaps another reason for my love of it is that 
 intuitive knowledge that tells me, when I see it in 
 abundance, deep and rich in the valleys and 
 changing to brighter tint on the swelling hillsides, 
 that there shall I see the race-horse in the glory of 
 his strength and the pride of his ancestry ; there 
 shall I find the gentle Jersey and the splendid 
 Shorthorn, and the flocks of sheep, startled, per- 
 haps, at our approach, and moving like a white 
 billow across a sea of green and emerald. To 
 
 219 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 me, '.r.z^., :: his :::Tr ::■ rer-ese": :he irm^e^ 'A 
 the :.c-5:::r; i" -.s::;.. ::r 5:_. :: s;re: ; "e 
 color::. z : .i: ^ivesthe butter its hue, and :r.e iriel 
 sr::: :riat rollicks :r. :he ::r.:e~:ei :ji of the 
 Southdown and the Sr. :::r.orn. I would like to 
 ii e r'.vays above ::. i?.:: sir. :e I cannot do that, 
 I V :- : rather ?A his: see: :r:r::h it than under 
 s:.T.e ~..z :: : .i~.T.y s:::.es, ::.it will one day 
 topple over to let the lizards know how dead my 
 
 There is a g::i iei! of pagan in our natures 
 ye:, e se . hy le e sd quick to personify ma- 
 te r 1 1 : r : : 5 " .- ~ : st involuntarily do we 
 ascrirr ^rir :: ::e i.iinimate things around 
 us. S:~e::~es I think some of the rules of our 
 r:ar-~ir might as weV. he changed, and, like the 
 Larl r.s. e: us call all thirds string and mighty, 
 Tris:_: hie i~ d those weak aii ie::ite, feminine. 
 Trhs v. c^ii u\so give me a zr.::.7.zz :: place blue 
 grass v.here in my dreams it has e . r: leen — the 
 J h e : : : : he grasses. 
 
 The first to burst from the earth under the 
 V- irnng rays of the early spring sun, full grown 
 re: e he- :i!der natured sisters are out of their 
 shir: ::: : :s, she is a thing of joy and beauty, of 
 impassiiiri : _:tion, voluptuous loveliness and 
 romantic impulses. In love with nature and her- 
 self, she wanders by the eir'y A?:':', i: :hs and 
 rejoices in the first songs ;: :he rrii ih-: ; a 
 true philanthropist, in her tenierness or heart she 
 
 220 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 feeds from her bountiful apron the early lambs, and 
 slips a sly blade or two into the mouth of the 
 newborn colt, as with dry humor he makes a 
 ridiculous attempt to go through the first evolu- 
 tions of the gait his nature demands. A true little 
 housewife, she begins at once to put her room to 
 rights, and lo ! in a few days she covers her 
 valley floors with the softest of Brussels, and 
 decorates the hillside walls with her own favorite 
 color, covering even the bare rocks and framing 
 them with an artist's hand. All nature is in love 
 with her. The sun sends his sunbeam children 
 to play with her, and there they will be found, 
 the warmest and rosiest ; here the birds congre- 
 gate to sing their merriest songs, and she passes 
 in and out among the flocks and herds, their 
 comforter and lovely shepherdess. 
 
 Her stoutly built Quaker sisters, the Timothies,, 
 come along apace, attend strictly to their own 
 business, accomplish their purpose and vanish. 
 That prolific wench, the Red Clover, flouncing 
 out like the cook in her Sunday clothes, decked 
 with many colored ribbons and smelling of rank 
 perfume, raises her yellow and brown children 
 and goes into winter quarters. Those old Scotch 
 maids, the Orchard Grasses, come along after 
 awhile, suspicious and wary, unsociable and full 
 of cranks and whims, and only satisfied when off 
 in knots and clans to themselves. Of course 
 they are afraid of the cold, and the first cool 
 
 221 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 breeze that comes from the north sends them 
 after their winter flannels, and they vanish. In 
 sharp contrast to them are the Red Tops, a lot 
 of pretty flirts who flaunt their red petticoats in 
 the face of decent people and cut their wild capers 
 till arrested by the mowing blade and raked in for 
 safe keeping. A few wild ones come here and 
 there, but, like the banana-fed maids of the mild 
 islands, their rotundity is unsubstantial, and their 
 days are as short as their one garment of clothing. 
 Even the crimson clovers rise up in serried ranks, 
 lift their bloody spears to heaven, fight their 
 battles and pass away. 
 
 But what about the little Juliet } She, too, 
 blooms and fades, and for awhile it looks as if 
 she will go the way of the others. Nothing but 
 her fiery will and unconquered nerve sustains 
 her. Shorn of her locks, demure and gentle, she 
 fades under the hot sun. 
 
 ** But death's pale flag has not advanced 
 there," for lo ! the gentle rains of the fall come, 
 and with it the glow of her maiden beauty. Her 
 pulse beats fast again ; she delights in the whirr 
 of the partridge, the flight of the wild geese, and 
 the flocks of the blackbirds. The lambs are 
 grown now, but come in again for her care and 
 attention, as also the eager cattle and the stately 
 mares. And so, like a resurrected dream of 
 spring, she makes glorious the death of the year, 
 sings the swan-song of autumn, and hangs her 
 
 222 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 garlands of immortality on the very snow king's 
 brow. At last she sleeps a bit — but just a little 
 nap — to wake again in the morning of the year, 
 a blessing, a poem, a picture. 
 
 223 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 HAL POINTER ON MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 1 NOTICED that our old friend, Hal Pointer, 
 turned out on Decoration Day at Tyrone, 
 Pa., and honored the occasion by pacing the half- 
 mile track in 2:16^, last half in 1:09. I judge 
 from the report that this was done in honor of the 
 opening day of the association ; but chiefly in 
 honor of the day itself — the Memorial Day of the 
 brave Union dead. 
 
 It is peculiarly fitting that Hal Pointer should do 
 this, for around the home of his cradle flashed the 
 hottest fires of the Civil War, and the land that 
 gave him being had the temper of its heart of 
 steel tried in the whitest heat of the conflict. The 
 air he first breathed was the same that echoed to 
 the shot and shout of Franklin ; the water he first 
 drank was tributary to that which ran in red 
 currents between the banks of the " bloody Har- 
 peth ;'* while the very grass he first nibbled was 
 made luxuriant by the blood of the blue and the 
 gray. The same element of sun and soil that 
 made the mortal parts of those that bared their 
 
 224 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 bosoms to the lance of war, made him ; and the 
 indomitable spirit of his near ancestors was that 
 which carried Forrest and Wheeler on their reck- 
 less raids. If there was ever a horse which comes 
 near representing the unflinching spirit of the old 
 South, that horse is Hal Pointer ; and it is pecu- 
 liarly appropriate, to my mind, that he should turn 
 out on Memorial Day and lay, in the twilight of 
 his life, the tribute wreaths of his matchless 
 courage and speed on the grave of a brave and 
 honored enemy. 
 
 And why not ? What is Prejudice that it 
 should claim authority to teach me to despise the 
 graves of those who differed from me in life — me, 
 who must so soon lie down to measure graves 
 with mine enemy ? What is Hatred that I should 
 allow it to put a blind bridle on me and ride me 
 to the devil ? What is Ignorance that it should 
 ask me to sit under the shadow of its wing and 
 imagine I am a seer in the lighted halls of Wis- 
 dom ? God made me free, and by God's help 
 none of these shall make me his slave. 
 
 The man in the North who will hate, after all 
 these years, his brave brother in the South, is 
 both a fool and a coward ; and the man in the 
 South who has not learned to forgive and forget, 
 who would not decorate the grave of a brave 
 enemy, is twin brother to him at the North. 
 Perhaps the war was a bloody blessing. God 
 alone knows why it should have been. But out 
 15 225 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 of it has come a cemented Union which, God 
 grant, will live forever. Does the England of to- 
 day think any less of the brave Scotch whose 
 independence and courage so often defied them 
 around the banners of Wallace and Bruce, or the 
 Irish "who have fought successfully the battles 
 of all the world save their own ?" If she does, 
 she must first erase from her history the glorious 
 achievements of Blenheim, Trafalgar and Water- 
 loo. 
 
 I shall not have lived in vain if I can teach one 
 simple lesson to the North and one equally as 
 simple to the South. That lesson is quickly told : 
 " Be charitable ; for your enemy died believing 
 he was right and fighting for the identical principle 
 involved in Bunker Hill and Yorktown." For, 
 strange as it may seem, the principle involved 
 was identical, differing only in the manner of its 
 application. 
 
 When I hear the plaudit of a gun each morning 
 and look out of my library window to see Old 
 Glory flutter up to its flagstaff away above the 
 tall trees of the arsenal, to catch the first kiss 
 from the only light that is its equal, my heart 
 swells with love and joy at its greatness and 
 power. I love it because it stands for equal 
 rights and equal chance for all men ; because it 
 has grown so great in principle and so strong in 
 might that it can say to the most arrogant of 
 tyrants : " Give your oppressed people the rights 
 
 226 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 of civilized beings, '* and he gives them; or to 
 the most powerful : " Tread not on the toes of 
 your helpless little neighbor," and she treads not. 
 Hove it for all these, but chiefly because it is the 
 flag of my own country, to the making of which 
 those of my own blood and clime lent no unwill- 
 ing hands. 
 
 And yet when I look on my mantel and see the 
 little faded flag there, 
 
 " Representing nothing on God's earth now 
 And naught in the waters below it," 
 
 nothing except the blood of a valorous dead and 
 the honesty of an unflinching devotion to principle 
 (as if these could be nothing) I cannot, to save my 
 life, help shedding tears. 
 
 And so I live — 'twixt a smile and a tear, as 
 Byron hath it — knowing that God is good and just, 
 and will judge us all, not by our failures or our 
 successes, but by the truthfulness and honesty of 
 our purpose. 
 
 So pace on, old Pointer, and in the sunset of 
 your life do greater deeds of loving kindness than 
 you ever did while vanquishing your enemies in 
 the heyday of your fame — 
 
 ** Under the sod and the dew 
 Waiting the Judgment day, 
 Love and tears for the blue, 
 Tears and love for the gray." 
 227 
 
POEMS 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 SAM DAVIS. 
 
 MUCH has been said as to heroic deeds done 
 on both sides in the Civil War. But here's 
 one by a twenty -year-old boy that I do not think 
 has its equal in the annals of any war — at least I 
 have never been able to find anything similar to 
 it. There are thousands of instances of men who 
 have died fearlessly in battle, under the excite- 
 ment of the contest, and numerous examples of 
 soldiers who have been executed rather than 
 betray their country or its cause, as was the case 
 with the martyr, Nathan Hale, in our war with 
 Great Britain. But I cannot find where any one 
 died rather than break his word to an enemy, as 
 did Sam Davis, the hero of this short sketch. 
 
 In November, 1863, when Gen. Bragg was at 
 Missionary Ridge, he wished to secure correct 
 information concerning the movements of the 
 Federal army in Middle Tennessee, and to find 
 out if it was moving from Nashville to Corinth to 
 reinforce Chattanooga. The duty was a most 
 hazardous one, and four or five scouts were 
 
 231 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 'o 
 
 selected for the purpose, but before going were 
 told that the chances were small for any of them 
 getting back alive. The men selected were 
 Sam Davis, a twenty-year-old boy ; Joshua 
 Brown, now a physician in New York city ; W. 
 J. Moore, now a successful farmer and horse- 
 man, Columbia, Tenn., and Capt. E. Coleman, 
 commanding Coleman's scouts. Of these, Davis 
 had obtained the most important information. 
 He had counted every regiment and all the artil- 
 lery in the Sixteenth corps, found out that they 
 were moving on Chattanooga, and had in his 
 saddle seat full and complete maps of the fortifi- 
 cations at Nashville and other points, and an 
 exact report of the Federal army in Tennessee. 
 Mounted on a superb horse, he was recklessly 
 brave, and exposed himself unnecessarily several 
 times. He remained over three days after he 
 should have left, to see his sweetheart, and when 
 chased from near her home by Federal cavalry 
 the night before he was captured, he ran away 
 from them in the dark. Then turning, he ran 
 back on them again, and, to demonstrate the 
 superiority of his mount, he slapped their horses 
 in the face with his cap as he ran by. The next 
 day, while resting in a thicket, he was captured 
 by the Seventh Kansas cavalry. 
 
 Gen. G. M. Dodge, the Federal general in 
 command at Pulaski, near which Davis was 
 captured, found the papers in the saddle seat to 
 
 232 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 have been taken from his own table, and correctly 
 surmised that some one very close to him had 
 proved traitorous. A court-martial consisting of 
 Col. Madison Miller, i8th Missouri infantry, Col. 
 Thomas W. Gaines, 50th Missouri infantry, and. 
 Major Lathrop, 39th Iowa infantry, condemned 
 Davis to be hanged ; but Gen. Dodge, who pitied 
 his youth and admired his manliness, and who 
 was very anxious to find out the traitor in his 
 own camp, offered Davis his freedom if he would 
 tell the name of the party who gave him the 
 papers. This, with great firmness and dignity,, 
 Davis refused to do. Gen. Dodge says : 
 
 ** 1 took him into my private office, and told him it 
 was a very serious charge that was brought against 
 him ; that he was a spy, and, from what I found 
 upon his person, he had accurate information in 
 regard to my army, and I must know how he ob- 
 tained it. I told him that he was a young man 
 and did not seem to realize the danger he was in. 
 Up to that time he said nothing ; but then he re- 
 plied, in the must respectful and dignified manner: 
 
 ** * Gen. Dodge, I know the danger of my sit- 
 uation, and am willing to take the consequences.* 
 
 ** I asked him then to give me the name of the 
 person who gave him the information ; that I 
 knew it must be some one near headquarters, or 
 who had the confidence of the officers of my staff, 
 and I repeated that I must know the source from^ 
 which it came. I insisted that he should tell me,. 
 
 233 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 but he firmly declined to do so. I told him I 
 would have to call a court-martial and have him 
 tried for his life, and from the proofs we had they 
 would be compelled to convict him. ; that there 
 was no chance for him unless he gave the source 
 of his information. He replied : 
 
 *' M know I will have to die, but I will not tell 
 where I got my information, and there is no power 
 on earth can make me tell. You are doing your 
 duty as a soldier, and I am doing mine. If I have 
 to die, I will do so feeling I am doing my duty to 
 God and my country.' 
 
 " I pleaded with him, and urged him with all the 
 power I possessed to give me some chance to save 
 his life, for I discovered he was a most admirable 
 young fellow, of the highest character and strict- 
 est integrity. He then said : 
 
 *' * It is useless to talk to me. I do not intend 
 to tell. I would rather die than break my word. 
 You can court-martial me, or do anything else you 
 like, but I will not betray the trust reposed in me. ' 
 He thanked me for the interest I had taken in him, 
 and I sent him back to prison. I immediately 
 called a court-martial to try him." 
 
 The day before he was executed, Davis wrote 
 the following letter to his mother : 
 
 Pulaski, Giles Co., Tenn., November 26, 1863. 
 Dear Mother : Oh, how painful it is to write to you ! 
 I have got to die to-morrow morning — to be hanged by the 
 Federals. Mother, do not grieve for me. I must bid you 
 
 234 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 good-bye forever. Mother, I do not fear to die. Give my 
 
 love to all. Your son, 
 
 Samuel Davis. 
 
 Mother, tell the children all to be good. I wish I could see 
 you all once more, but I never will any more. Mother and 
 father, do not forget me. Think of me when I am dead, 
 but do not grieve for me ; it will do no good. Father, you 
 can send after my remains if you want to do so. They 
 will be at Pulaski, Tenn. I will leave some things, too, 
 with the hotel-keeper for you. S. D. 
 
 Gen. Dodge became still more anxious to save 
 him and sent a lady in Pulaski, an old friend of 
 the boy's mother, to the prisoner to beg him to 
 give the information and save his life. She says 
 that Davis wept and told her he would rather die 
 than break his word, even to an enemy. She 
 made two other attempts to persuade him, but 
 without avail. 
 
 On Friday, November 27, Davis was hand- 
 cuffed, placed on his coffm, and driven in a wagon 
 out to the suburbs of Pulaski, where a rope had 
 been arranged for the execution. Gen. Dodge, 
 who was a most kind-hearted gentleman, hoped 
 he would weaken at the last moment and tell 
 him the name of the traitor in his camp, and after 
 the rope was adjusted he begged Davis to tell 
 him the name of the person who gave him the 
 papers, and promised then and there to liberate 
 him, give him his horse, his side arms, and a safe 
 escort back to the Confederate lines. Davis 
 thanked him and said : 
 
 235 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** If I had a thousand lives, I would lose them 
 all before I would betray my friends or the con- 
 fidence of my informer.'* 
 
 He then gave the provost-marshal some keep- 
 sakes for his mother and turned and said, ** I am 
 ready. Do your duty, men." 
 
 No wonder the people of the South are erect- 
 ing a monument to Sam Davis. Nearly two 
 thousand dollars have been subscribed, some of it 
 from Gen. Dodge, his staff and officers. Capt. 
 H. I. Smith, of Mason City, la., in sending his 
 contribution, wrote : 
 
 *' It was a heart-rending, sickening sight to me, 
 and every heart went out to him in sympathy 
 and sorrow, to see him sacrificed for an act of 
 duty that he was ordered to perform as a soldier, 
 and which was not a crime. The stern necessi- 
 ties of grim war seemed to demand that an ex- 
 ample should be made of some one, and fate 
 decreed that it should be Samuel Davis. I don't 
 know of a more noble specimen of manhood that 
 could have been chosen as a martyr for the sac- 
 rifice. I had nothing to do with his capture or 
 trial, being then only a non-commissioned offi- 
 cer of one of the regiments in Gen. Sweeney's 
 division in camp at Pulaski. I was close enough 
 to see his features and countenance when he was 
 executed. He was young, and seemed to be 
 possessed of superior intelligence and manliness, 
 and when it was understood that he was offered 
 
 236 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 life and liberty if he would divulge the name of the 
 party who furnished the information in his posses- 
 sion when captured, and would not betray the 
 sacred trust, none of us could help but admire his 
 trustworthiness and nobleness of character. It 
 was a fearful test to be put to — a young man 
 with life and a bright future before him ; but he 
 proved equal to the test, and I think he is worthy 
 of a monument to forever perpetuate his memory, 
 and as a noble specimen of valor as an American 
 soldier. I saw many of our hardened and bronze- 
 visaged veterans, who had seen much of carnage 
 and suffering, draw the backs of their rough hands 
 across their eyes as they secretly wiped away 
 tears. I think it was Gen. Sherman who said 
 * War is hell,' and so it seemed to me on that 
 occasion. Everybody was deeply affected. 
 There were few dry eyes among those who were 
 the sorrowful witnesses, and when the drop fell 
 there was such a pall of sadness and silence that 
 the air was oppressive. He was captured, I think, 
 by Lieut. E. B. Spalding, of the Fifty-second 
 Illinois infantry, who now resides at Sioux City, 
 la. I have heard him speak in sorrow and praise 
 of him, and that war and fate should decree his 
 untimely and ignominous death. I served four 
 years in the war, was twice wounded, and lost 
 my only brother at the battle of Shiloh, and be- 
 lieved then, and do now, that our cause was right. 
 I have no animosity against my former foes, and 
 
 237 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 want to see all sectional bitterness wiped out. I 
 want no North, no South, East or West, but one 
 common, united country, in which brotherly love 
 and loyalty to a common flag will prevail, and I 
 rejoice in the fact that both * Yank ' and ' Johnny ' 
 share equally in the benefit of our victory." 
 
 This is a manly letter, and Capt. Smith has 
 struck the right chord — no South, no North, no 
 East, no West ; and every example of loyalty 
 to duty, every example of bravery, courage, 
 devotion and glory, wherever found between the 
 seas, to go, as this one, to the credit of the Amer- 
 ican soldier. Such sentiments, thank God, have 
 almost wiped out the animosities of the war, and 
 the time will come when the heroic deeds of both 
 sides will be the common property of the whole 
 American people. 
 
 SAM DAVIS. 
 
 '* Tell me his name and you are free,*' 
 The General said, while from the tree 
 The grim rope dangled threat'ningly. 
 
 The birds ceased singing — happy birds. 
 That sang of home and mother-words. 
 The sunshine kissed his cheek — dear sun ; 
 It loves a life that's just begun ! 
 The very breezes held their breath 
 To watch the fight 'twixt life and death. 
 And O, how calm and sweet and free 
 238 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Smiled back the hills of Tennessee ! 
 Smiled back the hills, as if to say, 
 " O, save your life for us to-day !" 
 
 ** Tell me his name and you are free/' 
 The General said, "and I shall see 
 You safe within the rebel line — 
 I*d love to save such life as thine." 
 
 A tear gleamed down the ranks of blue — 
 
 (The bayonets were tipped with dew) 
 
 Across the rugged cheek of war 
 
 God's angels rolled a teary star. 
 
 The boy looked up — 'twas this they heard : 
 
 *' And would you have me break my word .•*" 
 
 A tear stood in the General's eye : 
 ** My boy, I hate to see thee die — 
 Give me the traitor's name and fly !'* 
 
 Young Davis smiled, as calm and free 
 As he who walked on Galilee : 
 '* Had I a thousand lives to live, 
 Had 1 a thousand lives to give, 
 I'd lose them — nay, I'd gladly die 
 Before I'd live one life a lie !" 
 He turned — for not a soldier stirred — 
 **Your duty, men— I gave my word." 
 
 The hills smiled back a farewell smile, 
 The breeze sobbed o'er his hair awhile, 
 The birds broke out in glad refrain, 
 239 
 
Songs and Stones 
 
 The sunbeams kissed his cheek again — 
 Then, gathering up their blazing bars, 
 They shook his name among the stars. 
 
 O, stars, that now his brothers are, 
 O, sun, his sire in truth and light, 
 
 Go, tell the list'ning worlds afar 
 
 Of him who died for truth and right ! 
 
 For martyr of all martyrs he 
 
 Who dies to save an enemy ! 
 
 THE LILY OF FORT CUSTER. 
 
 AND you want me to tell you the story, lad, 
 of the old horse, Tennessee, 
 The stout red roan I rode alone on the track of 
 
 that snake Pawnee, 
 The meanest Indian that ever bit dirt, and I hope 
 
 he is roasting to-day. 
 For I ain't had a mount that was any account 
 
 since — What did you say ? 
 Oo on with the story ? Why, that's what I am, 
 
 and I'm going to tell it my way ! 
 A Hal he was — the Indian, you ask ? Young 
 
 man, if I had my gun 
 You'd go to the spirit land yourself before this 
 
 here tale was done. 
 Three stout crosses of running blood — old Trav- 
 ' eler, Timoleon, Empire — 
 
 240 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 A Ha! on that ! Aye, there's the horse the devil 
 himself can't tire, ^ 
 
 Molded as trim as a Catling gun and full to the^ 
 brim of its fire. 
 
 1 raised him from a colt myself. My father gave 
 
 him to me 
 When I rode West with Custer's men of the 
 
 Seventh Cavalry, 
 Away to the shade and the shadow-land, where 
 
 the Rockies prop the sky. 
 And the bison herd, like a powder-brown bird, 
 
 afar on the trail fly — 
 But we never flickered in all that ride, neither 
 
 Tennessee nor I. 
 
 And gaits ? There wasn't a horse in camp could 
 
 go all the gaits like him — 
 Canter and pace and single-foot and fox-trot 
 
 smooth and trim. 
 He led the wing when the bugler would sing 
 
 ** Boots and Saddles !" — Away ! 
 From sun to sun there was never a run that he 
 
 wasn't in it to stay — 
 The showiest horse on dress parade, the gamest 
 
 in the fray. 
 
 And the Rockies ! O, the Rockies, lad ! God 
 
 made 'em to teach us how 
 To look from earth to Grandeur's birth — to His 
 
 own great beetling brow. 
 j6 241 
 
Sonss and Stories 
 
 'C5 
 
 1 never had seen a mountain, lad ! How they 
 thrilled ! — how they loomed on me ! 
 
 Granite and cloud wrapped in a shroud of snow 
 eternally. 
 
 So different from the sweet green hills of dear old 
 Tennessee. 
 
 Homesick I grew, I know not why, when we 
 camped in the far Sioux land ; 
 
 Things were so solemn and silent there — silent 
 and solemn and grand — 
 
 And I longed again to see the plain and the roll- 
 ing waves of wheat. 
 
 And the low, soft music of the grain in the June 
 days rustling sweet, 
 
 And the gay notes of the mocking bird, where the 
 Duck and the Bigby meet. 
 
 But out at the Fort was a maiden, 
 
 A maiden fair to see, 
 And I fell dead in love with her, 
 
 And she — with Tennessee, 
 For she learned to ride upon him, 
 
 And her gallop across the plain 
 Would make you think Athena had come 
 
 To break the winged horse again. 
 
 And she was the Captain's daughter. 
 
 In rank above me far 
 As above the fire-fly in the grass 
 
 Beams out the evening star. 
 
 2 4.2 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 But Love — he smiles at epaulets 
 As he laughs at bolts and bar. 
 
 With eyes like the skies when the shower is over 
 And the rain drops are soothing the cheeks of the 
 
 clover — 
 Dear drops of sympathy all too soon over ! 
 
 And a face like a vase with two rose-buds in it, 
 Rose-buds of cheeks, to change in a minute 
 To the puckered-up throat of a sweet-singing 
 linnet. 
 
 And curls like the whirls of the clouds, when the 
 
 Day-king 
 Stops his bold ride to the West, ere making 
 His bed in their bank and his night-goblet taking. 
 
 And lips like the dew-wine he sips in the morning, 
 Mistaking her eyes for the day's in its dawning, 
 Mistaking her eyes and sweet Eos' scorning. 
 
 And her soul ! 'Twas the goal of the Angels and 
 
 Graces, 
 Seen in their face as they play in their races — 
 The purest of souls in the purest of places. 
 
 And I .? 
 Followed no flag but the blue of her bonnet. 
 And I marched and I charged by the white 
 
 streamers on it. 
 And yet when she turned her blue batteries on me 
 
 243 
 

 Brou^it up her reserve to ride over and scorn me. 
 Iwasw:r::-ef z ~ : s : —y my mofiier had borne 
 me. 
 
 And sureie e: '. : i, -^ :_rh my heij^. wis 
 
 A:f:"t r: z : e: : t :d be captured. 
 
 When she v. 15 :iS:n I'd neve* t ee 
 Gave me he: : . ; : ; ri — Tr-cisee. 
 
 -e :e ! And I say 
 
 r _ : : : '5 : ' r way — 
 
 Love i r' er zrowsold. 
 
 1 mv world 
 
 G:: .-:r: :::: f-rr- :' z::. 
 Heydey ! Siiii 1 say 
 If - ?. '1 z'r.^'s \ - the way 
 What glory in : :t. ' i : : - bea-jt*' to love as ? 
 Love 5 
 Tocr :: - 
 
 Heydey ! Yet I say 
 There's many a way 
 That love finds his own, th<N]gh his own be 
 not wafr-z. 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 But hearts made to mate find a way for the 
 
 mating. 
 In our long ride up from the valley 
 
 A Pawnee chief we found — 
 Old Bone-in-the-Face they called him then, 
 
 But now — he is bone-in-the-ground. 
 Starving he was when we picked him up, 
 
 And racked with ague and pain, 
 But he taught us a lesson we'll never forget, 
 
 Which I don't mind telling again — 
 The good Indians live in the school books, lad, 
 
 The bad ones all live on the plain. 
 
 The coyote ! We nursed and cured him. 
 
 And then he turned his eyes 
 To the Lily, God help her ! and when she rode 
 
 From the Fort 'neath the sweet June skies 
 To pluck the flowers that grew on the plain 
 
 (A pony she rode that day) 
 The Pawnee stole the Colonel's horse 
 
 And slipped, with a Sioux, away. 
 Away on the track of the Lily, 
 
 Like wolves on the trail of a fawn. 
 Two hours before a soul in camp 
 
 Knew the treacherous dogs were gone — 
 Two hours before alarm's shrill voice 
 
 Waked the echoing sentry's horn ! 
 
 Away on the track of the Lily, and they lassoed 
 her pony and rode 
 
 245 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 With her bound in the saddle and helpless, to 
 Sitting Bull's band at the ford — 
 
 To Sitting Bull's tent ! for a life that was worse 
 than living in hell's own abode. 
 
 The alarm gun was sounded, we rushed through 
 
 the gate — the Captain, the Corporal, and 1 — 
 The moon had just risen, a trifle too late to see 
 
 the sun sink in the sky. 
 The Captain looked black as the charger he rode, 
 
 the Corporal sat grim on his grey, 
 While I ? — just patted old Tennessee's neck and 
 
 he struck that long gallop — to stay. 
 
 We struck the trail quickly ; 't^vas plain as could 
 
 be, the pony's flat track in the sand. 
 And then it was headed as straight as a bee to the 
 
 North, for the Sioux's bloody band. 
 A mile further on it turned slight to the right — the 
 
 Captain sprang quick to the ground, 
 For there in the path was a sun-bonnet bright — 
 
 he kissed it ; then, turning around, 
 
 We saw the tears glitter and felt kind o' moist 
 
 around our own hardened eyes. 
 Then stood with bowed heads for a moment while 
 
 each breathed a silent prayer up to the skies. 
 'Twas the work of a moment to tighten our girths, 
 
 cut loose the throat-latch and curb-chain, 
 Then strike for the ford — fifty good miles away 
 
 across the wide stretch of the plain. 
 246 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 ** To the ford !" cried the father, and his rowel 
 
 shot swift as a star in the flank of his black. 
 ** To the ford ! There is no other place they can 
 
 cross. To the ford ! See the course of the 
 
 track ! 
 Two hours the start ! Great God give us speed/* 
 
 as the black went away like the wind. 
 *' Too fast !" I called out, but he never did heed ; 
 
 already he'd left us behind. 
 
 **Now, Corporal," I said, **we will test your 
 
 grey's grit ; 'tis a ride that the stoutest 
 
 might shun." 
 And I braced myself firm, held steady the bit, 
 
 with Tennessee struggling to run. 
 But I gave not his head, for well did I know not 
 
 a horse in the world could stand 
 Fifty miles of a race at a heart-killing pace in the 
 
 alkali dust of that land. 
 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on, 
 
 Out in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 No word did we speak, no sound did we heed 
 But the low, muffled beat of the galloping steed. 
 The grey, circling dust rose in pillars and spread 
 Like the ghost of a cloud in the moonlight o'er- 
 
 head ; 
 And the sage-bush was plated with white in the 
 
 light 
 As we raced, like a running team, into the night. 
 
 247 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Beyond us, the peak of a towering cone, 
 Fifty good miles away, on the broad Yellowstone, 
 Was our snow-covered goal, in the moon-bla- 
 zoned air. 
 And we headed full straight for the ford that was 
 
 there. 
 Our horses pulled hard on the bit, for the dash 
 Was a-frolic to them in the hoof-beating crash. 
 And the quick, playful snort, as onward we glide. 
 From their nostrils keep time to the lengthening 
 
 stride. 
 The miles spin behind us, with bound upon bound 
 Two shadows fly on like a twin-headed hound. 
 xWy roan tossed the fleckings of foam in a ring, 
 As an eagle the snow-flake that lights on his 
 
 wing. 
 And with nose to his knees and his ears laid back 
 He swept a clean path through the dust-covered 
 track, 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
 Ten miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 But onward we went, head lowered, and bent 
 To the stride like an arrow from ashen bow sent. 
 My horse was now wet to the mane with his 
 
 sweat. 
 And the grey, where the dust and the moisture 
 
 had met, 
 Was white as the palfrey Godiva rode down 
 Through the dead silent street of Coventry town. 
 
 248 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 His breath comes shorter and quicker — a wheeze. 
 And I note that his stride is not true at the knees. 
 I felt of my roan, brought him down to a pace, 
 For the speed was terrific, the gait — 'twas a race! 
 I stood in my stirrups and cut loose the cord 
 Of the cantle strap — down went the full useless 
 
 load! 
 I threw off my saber and cavalry cloak, 
 My rain-coat and blanket, and, bending, I spoke: 
 ** Steady, good Tennessee ! Steady and true, 
 There's a race yet ahead, old fellow, for you. 
 Just swing this long gallop for ten miles or more. 
 We are frolicking now, but we'll show them 
 
 before 
 We halt in the shadow of yon mount by the flood 
 The never-die spirit of Tennessee blood." 
 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
 
 Twenty miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 But see ! now he pricks up his ears as we rush. 
 And shies with a bound to the right from the 
 
 brush. 
 A glance, and pitifully struggling with pain 
 The Captain's black horse is stretched out on 
 
 the plain. 
 And I see as 1 pass, with a pull on the bit, 
 The scarlet blood gush from his deep nostril-pit. 
 To the Corporal I said : ** Do you know what 
 
 we passed ?" 
 He nodded — ** I knew he was going too fast. 
 
 249 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 The black was dead game, but too fat and rank 
 To run twenty miles with a steel in his flank. 
 Poor fellow ! But where can his rider now be ?'* 
 " Ahead, and on foot — just ahead, do you see ?*' 
 As a speck in the distance, a spot in the grey — 
 Then a tall, lithe figure plodding away. 
 He stops at the sound of our galloping hoof ; 
 We draw curb a moment 'neath the silvery roof 
 That rolls o'er our heads as our steeds make a 
 
 launch. 
 Planting stiff knees in sand, thrown back on their 
 
 haunch. 
 "What news?" ''Goon, and check not your 
 
 rein," 
 Said the father, as quickly he stooped on the 
 
 plain. 
 Then rising — "From the track we're an hour 
 
 behind. 
 For the love of your homes speed on like the wind ! 
 But halt ! Corporal, give me that good gallant 
 
 grey"— 
 A moment, and then we were speeding away — 
 Speeding away through the low, creeping light. 
 Through the shade and the shadow, the blare 
 
 and the blight 
 Of the heat wave that clung to the breath of the 
 
 night — 
 Speeding away through the leg-wearying sand, 
 Through the hoof-stinging flint of that alkali land 
 With steel in our hearts and steel in our hand, 
 
 2 sO 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
 Thirty miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 Not a word : as we rushed adown a long slope 
 We bounded as free as the wild antelope. 
 A coyote howls out from a neighboring hill, 
 An owl hoots an answer, and then all is still. 
 A rise in the range of our trail to the right 
 And our cloud-propping goal flashes bold on our 
 
 sight. 
 ** Thank God!" cries the Captain, ** their 
 
 powers now fail. 
 They have come to a trot — see the tracks in the 
 
 trail !" 
 And crazed with the grief that a father can feel 
 He sends the steel home with a desperate heel. 
 But I mark the short breaths of the grey as he 
 
 goes. 
 And his staggering gait as the dust upward 'rose. 
 '*Draw your rein!" to the Captain I shouted 
 
 aloud ; 
 ** Your horse will choke down in this dust-stifling 
 
 cloud. 
 We have come many miles without water or rest — 
 Draw rein just a moment — ' ' Down on his breast. 
 With a sickening wheeze from his steam-heaving 
 
 chest, 
 He staggers — reels — heaves — and over he sinks. 
 While the blood bubbles up from its carmined 
 
 brinks. 
 
 251 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 ** Go on, Sergeant — on !" as he leaps to be free — 
 *' My child and her life rest with old Tennessee 1" 
 Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
 Alone in the moonlight, galloping on. 
 
 For the first time now I felt nervous with dread ; 
 Even Tennessee galloped less bravely ahead. 
 Each bush seemed an Indian as big as a horse, 
 Each shadow the ghost of another, across 
 Our path slipping on in the dim, misty light 
 To warn those ahead to be ready for fight. 
 1 spoke to brave Tennessee, stroked his wet crest. 
 Talked of the home where we both used to rest — 
 The meadows, where shone the calm, blue sky 
 
 above, 
 And the blue grass below in the land of our love — 
 Of the old mare, perchance nodding now in her 
 
 stall. 
 And the father and mother — ah ! dearest of all. 
 And I smile even now as I think of the song 
 I sang out aloud as we staggered along ; 
 And Tennessee braced himself up at the sound, 
 For I felt his feet strike a bit steadier the ground, 
 And it nerved even me — not a moment too soon. 
 For there, standing there in the light of the moon, 
 Almost in our pathway — how quickly it rose ! 
 Then, — the twang of a bow under Tennessee's 
 
 nose, 
 Just as the horse on his haunches arose, 
 And the deadly barbed arrow, intended for me, 
 
 252 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 With a rattlesnake hiss struck brave Tennessee 
 Just under the throat, near the big throbbing vein, 
 And came out above, in his sweat-covered mane. 
 But he drew not another, for quick through his 
 
 head 
 My Colt sent a cone of government lead — 
 And Uncle Sam's darling in the moonlight lay 
 
 dead I 
 A moment's convulsion — on his knees sank my 
 
 roan — 
 Down ! and my heart sank, too, with his groan, 
 But, struggling, he 'rose with the staggering pain 
 As I spoke, and came to his senses again. 
 Then plunged — reeled — plunged — Great God, 
 
 would he fall 
 With that flint in his throat ? In vain was my 
 
 call! 
 How 1 pitied him, struggling, the will 'gainst the 
 
 flesh! 
 But I thought of the Lily and urged him afresh, 
 And I plunged both my spurs in his death-shaking 
 
 sides. 
 He never had felt them before in his rides. 
 For he bounded away with the bit in his teeth 
 And the frenzy of death in his hoof-beats beneath. 
 And he ran as if knowing his last race was run — 
 Was there ever a grander one under the sun I 
 
 A spurt on the trail, a maiden's low cry, 
 Half-strangled — and then we were thundering by. 
 
 253 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Useless my pistol ! I threw it away ; 
 Too close was the Lily — too deadly the fray ! 
 A spring and a grapple ! A hand to hand strife — 
 A blow — here's the scar from his murderous 
 
 knife — 
 The next and my grandfather's King Mountain* 
 
 made 
 A path through his heart to his left shoulder blade. 
 
 A maid on the sand — and she held in her lap 
 Not my head — but that of a far nobler chap. 
 A maid on the sand— and her tears fall free 
 On the quivering muzzle of brave Tennessee, 
 While his poor, pleading eyes seemed to linger 
 
 above 
 To tell her he galloped that gallop for love. 
 
 That's all ! When I waked from a two hours' 
 
 swoon 
 (Where I dreamed a sweet Lily grew by a lagoon 
 And kissed me and bound with her leaflets my 
 
 wound) 
 The Captain was there with fifty picked men. 
 And they swore such a ride they would ne'er see 
 
 again ! 
 And the Captain broke down, and the Lily and 
 
 me, 
 And we all went to camp — all but old Tennessee. 
 
 * A short, heavy knife made from the sword his grand- 
 sire used at the battle of King's Mountain. The writer 
 has often seen it. 
 
 254 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 He sleeps by the shore 
 
 Where swift waters roar, 
 The mountain his monument 
 Till time is no more, 
 And beneath — this is carved where a boulder 
 hangs o'er : 
 
 HERE LIES TENNESSEE, 
 
 of the 
 
 SEVENTH CAVALRY. 
 
 the 
 
 same was a horse, 
 
 yet 
 
 HE GALLOPED ACROSS 
 
 The Plain 
 
 To Fame. 
 
 Of Three, He Alone 
 
 had 
 
 The Blood and the Bone 
 
 TO RUN 
 
 Fifty Miles to the Yellowstone. 
 
 To Save a Life He Gave His Own. 
 
 And now I have told you the story, lad, 
 
 Except — well, I soon came home. 
 For I had no mount that was any account 
 
 And I had no heart to roam. 
 But after a while I did go back and 
 I brought her home with me — 
 The Lily of Fort Custer — and she blooms in Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 255 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 THE FLAG OF GREEN'S BRIGADE. 
 (Louisiana Building, World's Fair Grounds.) 
 
 OWHEN I stood before the tatter'd flag of 
 , Green's brigade, 
 My heart beat martial music for the thoughts my 
 
 spirit made. 
 I saw the old-time flint-locks flash their deadly 
 
 disks of flame, 
 I cheered the old-time ragged lines that marched 
 
 in Freedom's name, 
 1 wept o'er old-time gaping wounds in manly 
 
 breasts displayed, 
 And dying eyes that last looked on the flag of 
 
 Green's brigade. 
 
 O, when I stood before the faded flag of Green's 
 brigade, 
 
 I saw the blood of heroes in its every tint and 
 shade. 
 
 'Neath Saratoga's steel-cold stars it led our charg- 
 ing line 
 
 And hurled back Freedom's challenge from the 
 guns of Brandywine, 
 
 At Germantown and Kettle Creek and Camden's 
 leaden rain — 
 
 256 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Till Yorktown found it torn and shorn but still 
 
 without a stain ! 
 *Twas this that led the tide that swept our craft 
 
 from out the gloom 
 And hung, like Hope's bright banner, o*er the 
 
 portals of the tomb ; 
 And, flaming like a flambeau held in Victory's 
 
 mailed hand. 
 It blazed the way for brightest day throughout 
 
 the struggling land. 
 Around it flocked the Southron while the bright 
 
 beams of his blade 
 Gleamed out like stars of midnight 'round the 
 
 flag of Green's brigade. 
 
 O, as I stand before the faded flag of Green's 
 brigade, 
 
 Methinks I hear the thunder of the Future's can- 
 nonade ! 
 
 Methinks our lines are marching — marching to 
 the same old call — 
 
 And some are blue and some are gray — the old 
 flag over all. 
 
 And Gettysburg and Bull Run now have met, 
 both undismayed, 
 
 To fight their country's battles 'round the flag of 
 Green's brigade. 
 
 257 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 BY THE LITTLE BIG-HORN. 
 
 (A Montana paper is authority for the state- 
 ment that a half-breed Sioux, who had served 
 as scout for Gen. Custer, was living in that State 
 a few years ago, and claimed to be the only sur- 
 vivor of Custer's last fight. In the confusion 
 this half-breed mingled with the Sioux and escaped 
 the massacre by reason of close tribal resem- 
 blance. He relates how eight horsemen of the 
 Seventh Regiment cut through the Sioux and 
 gained the foot-hills beyond, where they could 
 easily have joined Reno and escaped, had they 
 not looked down and seen the desperate strait in 
 which their general was placed. To the aston 
 ishment of all, they shot their own horses, and, 
 forming into line, marched back to die with 
 Custer.) 
 
 DOWN to their death in the valley of silence, 
 Down where the Sioux's treach'rous ranks 
 lay at bay, 
 Down till the yellow waves turned into crimson 
 
 The old Seventh rode on that ill-fated day. 
 "Forward, the Seventh! Charge through the 
 Sioux center !" 
 
 258 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 *Twas Custer who said it — lie rode on the 
 right — 
 His long yellow hair was the banner they fol- 
 lowed 
 And he sat his black horse like the Centaur of 
 fight ! 
 
 Down to their death in that somber-hued valley, 
 They rode through the Sioux with carbine and 
 Colt— 
 The reins in their teeth and the glint of their 
 sabers 
 Making the flash for their lead thunderbolt. 
 ** Forward, the Seventh — guide right ! To the 
 center !'* 
 'Twas Custer who said it, as onward he sped, 
 Spurring his steed where the eagle's grey feathers 
 Rose o'er the crest of the billows of red. 
 
 Out from that valley, that valley of carnage. 
 Eight horsemen have cut through the ranks of 
 the foe ; 
 They gain the bold heights and safely look down- 
 ward, 
 Down on the scene of this new Alamo. 
 For there, his dead steed as a breastwork before 
 him, 
 With the glory of battle ablaze in his eye, 
 Answering it back in flash of his pistols. 
 Our prince of the saddle has stopped there — 
 to die ! 
 
 259 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Again and again roll the billows of fury 
 
 To be shattered again as the wave on the rock ; 
 Again and again melts the line of the Seventh 
 
 Beneath the Sioux bullet and Wahpeton shock. 
 But see ! from the heights where their good 
 steeds have clambered, 
 Out-footing Sioux ponies in fleet-winged flight, 
 The eight have dismounted — one glance tells the 
 story — 
 They shoulder their rifles and dress to the 
 right. 
 
 They hear the wild whoop of the blood-mad- 
 dened savage, 
 They see their brave comrades go down in the 
 brunt, 
 They hear through the din the calm voice of 
 brave Custer — 
 A breastwork of dead he has made in his 
 front I 
 ** Attention, squad!*' 'twas the sergeant who 
 said it, 
 ** Fours right into line — our duty lies back !'* 
 Then quick from his belt came a blue-gleaming 
 barrel, 
 And the steed that had saved him lay dead in 
 its track ! 
 
 Back to their death in that valley of slaughter 
 Eight horsemen march down on the hosts of 
 the Sioux, 
 
 260 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Not a trumpet gave note — not the gleam of a 
 banner — 
 'Tis only a duty they march down to do. 
 ** Forward, squad !" said the sergeant immortal — 
 ** Charge straight for the center — to Custer 
 once more," 
 And Time, in his pitiless flight, for a moment 
 Looked down on a sight he had ne'er seen 
 before. 
 
 Up in that valley, that sweetly green valley, 
 
 O, raise them a monument proudly in air, 
 Telling the story as ages grow hoary 
 
 What American soldiers for duty will dare. 
 High on the shaft in the glint of the sunlight 
 
 Let Custer's proud figure, heroic, stand high, 
 And grouped just beneath, with immortelle 
 wreath, 
 
 The eight nameless horsemen who never 
 shall die. 
 
 THOROUGHBREDS. 
 (An incident of the fight around Atlanta.) 
 
 STRAIGHT at the breastworks, flanked with 
 fire, 
 Where the angry rifles spat their ire. 
 And the reeling cannon rocked with flame, 
 Swift as his namesake. Bullet came. 
 Young was his rider, fifteen and two, 
 
 261 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And yet the battles that he'd been through 
 Were fifteen and ten — a braver lad 
 Old Fighting Forrest never had ! 
 
 And as he rode down the rifled wind 
 
 His brown curls bannered the breeze behind. 
 
 **0, they are mother's," he had laughed and 
 
 said 
 When the men nicknamed him "Trundle Bed" 
 Two years before— when he first ran away 
 From mother and school to don the gray. 
 '* But that's all right " — with a toss of his head — 
 ** For Bullet is grown — and he's thoroughbred !" 
 
 But that was before the Shiloh fight 
 Where he led the charge 'gainst Prentiss' right. 
 And as he came through the smoke and flame 
 Old Forrest himself was heard to exclaim : 
 ** Just look at Bullet and Trundle Bed ! 
 1 tell you, boys, they're both thoroughbred !" 
 And from that day on it became a law, 
 *' Follow Bullet and you'll go to war I" 
 To-day he rode less erect, I ween, 
 For he'd had a battle with General Gangrene 
 In the hospital tent — (a ball in his chest 
 For riding too far over Kenesaw's crest). 
 But even while tossing with fever and pain 
 He had caught a whiff of battle again, 
 Just smelt it afloat in the sulphurous air, 
 And he knew, somehow, that Forrest was there 
 
 262 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 And hard pressed, too — so, 'twixt crutches and 
 
 crawl, 
 That night he slipped out to Bullet's stall. 
 A whinnying welcome — a kiss on his ear, 
 "I'm alive yet. Bullet — Trundle Bed's here V* 
 A pattering gallop at first daylight. 
 The boom of a gun on Johnston's right — 
 ** That's Cleburne, Bullet ! What a charming 
 
 fight!" 
 
 Straight at the sheeted and leaden rain 
 He rode — Alas ! not back again I 
 For the hot fire scorched the curls of brown, 
 And grapeshot mowed their owner down. 
 And the heart that beat for mother and home 
 Was dumb where it wept and wet the loam, 
 And dim in the dust the blue eyes fine — 
 But Bullet charged over the Yankee line. 
 
 Charged over the line ! — then he missed the 
 
 touch 
 Of the rider that always had loved him much, 
 And he wheeled as the gray lines rose and fell 
 'Neath fire like fire from the pits of hell, 
 And he rushed again on a backward track 
 When he saw the Texas brigade fall back. 
 But whose was the form that caught his eye 
 With boots to the guns and face to the sky .? 
 And whose was the voice ? — " Tell mother good^ 
 
 bye I" 
 
 263 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And why were the curls red ? His were brown — 
 He stopped as if a shot had brought him down ! 
 
 Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, 
 And steel cursed steel — yet he stood before 
 The form he loved ; — for he knew the eyes 
 Though their June had changed to December 
 
 skies. 
 Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, 
 And steel cursed steel — yet he whinnied o'er 
 The form he loved, while the grapeshot tore ! 
 And still he stood o'er the curly head — 
 For Bullet, you know, was thoroughbred — 
 Till a solid shot plowed a cruel rent, — 
 A last loving whinny — and Bullet was spent ! 
 
 The burying squad in blue next day 
 Stopped to a man as they wiped away 
 A tear — for there all calm 'mid the wreck 
 Was Trundle Bed pillowed on Bullet's neck ! 
 
 O Union great, O Union strong. 
 The South, you say, was in the wrong, 
 And yet, some day, when the foe shall come, 
 Some day at the beat of an insolent drum, 
 When the glorious Stars and Stripes unfurl'd 
 Shall stand for Home in Freedom's world, 
 The first their blood in the cause to shed 
 Will be — the sons of the thoroughbred ! 
 
 264 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 '* WEARING THE GRAY." 
 (A Memorial Day Poem for the Confederacy.) 
 
 WEARING the gray, wearing the gray, 
 Battling alone in the world of to-day, 
 Fighting for bread in the battle of life, 
 With courage as grand as they rode to the strife. 
 Marching to beat of Toil's merciless drum. 
 Longing for comrades who never shall come, 
 Comrades who sleep where they fell in the fray — 
 Dead — but immortal in jackets of gray. 
 
 Wearing the gray in the silvery hair, 
 Mortality's banner that Time planted there ! 
 Wearing a gray, while the tears upward start, 
 A gray that is buried down deep in the heart. 
 
 Wearing the gray, wearing the gray, 
 The old line marches in mem'ry to-day — 
 The old drums beat and the old flags wave — 
 How the dead gray-jackets spring up from the 
 
 grave ! 
 They rush on with Pickett where young gods 
 
 would yield. 
 They sweep with Forrest the shell-harrowed field, 
 They laugh at the bolts from the batteries hurled. 
 Yet weep around Lee when the last flag is furled. 
 
 265 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Wearing the gray o'er the temples of white, 
 Time's banner of truce for the end of the 
 
 fight. 
 Wearing a gray that was worn long ago, 
 With their face to the front and their front 
 
 to the foe. 
 
 Wearing the gray, wearing the gray, 
 
 Longing to bivouac over the way, 
 
 To rest o'er the river in the shade of the trees, 
 
 And furl the old flag to eternity's breeze. 
 
 To camp by the stream on that evergreen shore. 
 
 And meet with the boys who have gone on before. 
 
 To stand at inspection 'mid pillars of light, 
 
 While God turns the gray into robings of white. 
 
 Wearing the gray o'er the foreheads of 
 
 snow — 
 The drum-beat is quick, but the paces are 
 
 slow — 
 Wearing a gray for the land of the blest. 
 When life's fight is o'er and the rebel shall 
 
 rest. 
 
 Wearing the gray, wearing the gray. 
 Almost in the valley, almost in the spray, 
 Waiting for taps when the light shall go out. 
 Yet hoping to wake with a reveille shout ! 
 Leaving to Heaven the Right and the Wrong, 
 Praying for strength in the old battle song — 
 
 266 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Praying for strength in the last ditch to stay, 
 When death turns his guns on the old head of gray. 
 
 Wearing the gray in the paleness of death, 
 For the angel has swept with a garnering 
 
 breath ! 
 Wearing a gray when he wakes in the morn — 
 The old rebel jacket our dead boy had on ! 
 
 THE BELLS OF ATLANTA. 
 
 (An Incident of the Civil War.) 
 
 AUTUMN sunset on Atlanta painting banners 
 red of Mars — 
 
 Twinkling campfires in the distance like ten 
 thousand evening stars. 
 
 For the foe had come upon her in the glory of his 
 might, 
 
 And his siege guns, like grim war dogs, waited 
 for the morrow's fight. 
 
 Down the valley in the moonlight lay the Gate- 
 way of the South, 
 
 Fruitful as a summer grain field when the east 
 wind breaks the drought — 
 
 Proud as harem queen, and heedless — sleeping 
 'neath the cannon's mouth. 
 267 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Sabbath sunrise on Atlanta, issuing in the steel- 
 gray morn, 
 Turning dark hills into silver as the crystal light 
 
 is born ; 
 Wakes the beaming sky in beauty, sleeps the 
 
 somber earth in shade — 
 Only reveille and roll-call mock the peace that 
 
 God has made ! 
 And the siege guns ceased their dreaming — 
 
 ceased their dreaming of the fray, 
 Turned their horrid fronts to eastward, where the 
 
 quiet city lay — 
 For the word had come from masters they must 
 
 open on their prey ! 
 
 Far away through blue-domed morning rose the 
 
 city's thread-like spires, 
 Lifting up the southern banner to her heaven- 
 kindling fires ; 
 And the foemen, seeing, wondered — knew they 
 
 fought no battle wraith— 
 For the finger of her worship was the flag-staff of 
 
 her faith 1 
 Ay, they knew that in that banner, fluttering 
 
 there without a flaw, 
 Slept the nerve of Chickamauga and the heart 
 
 of Kenesaw — 
 Slumbered southern hope and glory, her religion 
 
 and her law. 
 
 268 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 ** Aim for yonder cursed banner flouting from that 
 
 tallest spire ; 
 Open with the hundred-pounders — let the bat- 
 teries follow fire !" 
 Thus spake Sherman, and his army, marshaled 
 
 in the hilltop sun, 
 Waited there in painful silence for the music of 
 
 that gun. 
 And those siege guns, huge, black-muzzled, show 
 
 their demon, ghoulish lips, 
 As they raise their necks to measure where the 
 
 blue horizon dips — 
 Where to spring across the valley when their 
 
 leash the keeper slips. 
 
 In a moment on the city there would rain a fire 
 
 of hell ; 
 Solid shot would mingle thunder with the shriek 
 
 of shrapnel shell ! 
 Like an eagle from his eyrie falling on the flock 
 
 below, 
 Death would scream across the valley lighted 
 
 by the fuse's glow. 
 Then the sergeant grasps the lanyard, while 
 
 erect the gunners stand. 
 As they wait in dumb obedience for the Colonel's 
 
 stern command — 
 For the word unloosing thunder on this heaven- 
 basking land. 
 
 269 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Suddenly, far down the valley, came a faint yet 
 
 tuneful sound, 
 Floating from the tallest steeple, spreading like 
 
 God's halo 'round. 
 And the sergeant dropped the lanyard as that 
 
 sweet wave rose and fell, 
 And the bristling ranks saluted — for they heard 
 
 their own church bell : 
 
 Softly, sweetly, rising, falling, 
 Hark ! 'tis thus the p^an ran — 
 
 Gently chiding, calmly calling: 
 
 ** Peace on earth, good will to man !" 
 
 Heralding to pale blue morning 
 Till the echoing hilltops start — 
 
 Shell and shot and cannon scorning : 
 '' Love thy God with all thy heart!*' 
 
 Out it pours, full heaven-throated, 
 Caring naught for glory's pelf. 
 
 Chiming, as it upward floated : 
 *' Love thy neighbor as thyself !" 
 
 God's own skylark of His spirit ! — sweeter than 
 
 the songs of war, 
 Grander than the bass of battle when the cannon 
 
 boom afar — 
 
 Mightier than the thunder-organs on the decks at 
 
 Trafalgar ! 
 
 270 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 And the soldier as he listened saw New England's 
 
 hilltops rise — 
 Saw the plains of Indiana stretch beneath his 
 
 misty eyes. 
 Vanished now the flags of battle, gone were 
 
 armed host and gun, 
 And his own sweet native village lay before him 
 
 in the sun. 
 It is Sabbath, and the church bells call him now 
 
 to worship God ; 
 Sabbath there — yet here he standeth, ready with 
 
 the chastening rod, 
 Till a brother's blood shall mingle with his own, 
 
 his southern sod. 
 
 'Tis enough — the flags are lowered and the blue- 
 steel guns they stack — 
 
 God has broken ranks where cannon never yet 
 has turned them back. 
 
 All day long the rebel banner, flirting while the 
 winds caressed, 
 
 Mocked the guns that, parked to westward, 
 crowned the hilltop's bristling crest. 
 
 All day long the Sabbath sunlight o'er the peace- 
 ful city spread, 
 
 Blending blue and gray battalions in the soft 
 clouds overhead — 
 
 And the siege guns watched and wondered why 
 their keepers all had fled ! 
 271 
 
Sof^ and Stories 
 
 Ring^ ye church bells of Atlanta ! Ring till sin 
 
 and hate ^lall cease ! 
 Ring, fill nations hear thy peeans, and the founts 
 
 of love release. 
 And the notes of drums are drowned in thy mel- 
 odies of peace. 
 
 THE TENNESSEEAN TO THE FLAG. 
 
 w 
 
 t~ ? r : ; ; : .- 1 _ rening of the Untied Slates 
 -.'St - il at Coiumbia, Temi.) 
 
 ed you first in the days oi old, 
 
 F : : : - stood for the rights of men. 
 And our p : ; - r e : ' : : ers followed your fold — 
 
 For they ::\.gr:i ror the Union then; 
 They he' - y : - aloft in the fiery flame, 
 M : : z . : e of the British shell. 
 And z'.i-'.Zri : _ ' : " e r r ghts of fame — 
 Thi: ''.::Z -r.^y .oved so well ! 
 
 We followed you first in i-~e :.iy? of dd. 
 
 When our Jackson went t: . r ray. 
 And the Tennessee soldiers lay in the cold 
 
 Of that long, dread winter day. 
 They lay in the cold, but you floated o'er. 
 
 And the silence was deep as ihe grave 
 Till their long-barreled r^es spoke with a roar 
 
 For the flag they fought to save. 
 
 272 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 We followed you first in the days of old, 
 
 When our Polk roused the Mexican ire. 
 And we gathered an empire into the fold 
 
 To warm it with Liberty's fire. 
 'Twas ou'" own gallant Campbell who led the 
 band, 
 
 The first o'er the Mexican height. 
 And yon flag of our Union went in his hand 
 
 Through the red-hot fire of the fight. 
 
 We've followed you oft in the days of old — 
 
 And we'll follow you oft again ! 
 Shall the pulse of the son grow sluggish and cold 
 
 Where the sire's blood flowed like the rain ? 
 Shall the deeds of the past, by Error bewail'd, 
 
 Be lost in passion's dark flow, 
 And the flag of our country by brothers be trailed 
 
 When it never has trailed to the foe ? 
 
 No ! We'll follow you now, proud flag of the free, 
 
 Should the foe with his banners e'er come — • 
 No need for a bugle to call us to thee. 
 
 Our hearts make the beat of our drum ! 
 With the spirit of Jackson to guide from above. 
 
 And the mem'ry of Crockett to aid us, 
 We'll rally once more to the banner we love — 
 
 The banner our forefathers made us 1 
 
 Then wave, proud flag of our Union, 
 Wave and unroll your bright bars ; 
 For never was sunshine brighter, 
 i8 273 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And never the sweet air lighter 
 Than that now circling your stars. 
 
 Then float, proud flag of our Union, 
 Float o'er this land of the free ; 
 For ne'er was love any truer, 
 And ne'er was sentiment purer 
 Than the love of our people for thee. 
 
 TENNESSEE. 
 (A Centennial Poem — 1897.) 
 
 SUN-SHIMMER'D fields of dreaming green, 
 A sky blue-domed in azure sheen, 
 And hill on hill dipped deep between. 
 And with soft sighs the breezes rise 
 To waft cloud-kisses to the skies. 
 
 Nature smiled, and dimpled back 
 The Middle Basin in her track. 
 She laughed, and ling'ring on its crest 
 Her echo rolled from out the west. 
 She frowned, and 'round her thoughtful brow, 
 'Rose our bold peaks of liberty. 
 'Rose, and wedded with the sky — 
 For Liberty will wed no less 
 Than this sky-child of loveliness, 
 With eyes of stars and sunset tress. 
 
 274 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 And one — King's Mountain peak in name- 
 Has linked his wedding day to fame — 
 For scorning Self, and hoyden Mirth, 
 And flesh-pot Pride, and cringing Earth, 
 He kissed his bride-queen of the sky 
 And gave to Independence birth. 
 
 God saw the picture, that 'twas good, 
 And so on heaven's heights He stood 
 And through the bars of throbbing stars 
 Sent men whose souls were souls of Mars, 
 
 God saw the picture, that 'twas fair, 
 And so, from out of heaven's air, 
 Through dreamy haze of nebulous ways— 
 (Souled in the sweetness of their lays 
 And crowned in the halo of their blaze) 
 Sent maids to wed these men of Mars. 
 
 And over all, from Morning's loom, 
 He cast a veil of blue and bloom, 
 As ancient kings a cloth of gold 
 Threw o'er the master works of old. 
 
 When star weds star, the stars are born, 
 And after star-birth comes the morn, 
 The morn of Men and Principle. 
 And so men came of giant frame — 
 Live-oaks in the field of Fame — 
 Monarchs in God's forestry. 
 
 275 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And one came as the Hickory,* with steel-knit, 
 
 stubborn form. 
 The gatherer of strength that's won by wrest- 
 ling with the storm, 
 The main-mast of that sturdy ship that first flung 
 
 to the world 
 The heaven-reflected glory of the Stars and 
 
 Stripes unfurled. 
 He came and smote, and from the throat of guns 
 
 of Tennessee, 
 He echoed back the thunder-note of infant 
 
 Liberty. 
 And one grew as the rough, Red Oak,-^ from out 
 
 the deep, rich soil — 
 The strength of ages garnered in the nobleness 
 
 of toil- 
 He stood and died for Liberty, and far across 
 
 the sea 
 Tcsse: 'r:.:'-: ^'"e ".e.v -.v-rld's answer to a new 
 
 And one ..s ' ;e :..e Ailii.v; in his grace of 
 
 Ar.i is the listening ear of fame as the livp- 
 
 s:r:rz holds the wind. 
 And one was like the stately Pine,§ his name an 
 
 evergreen 
 Held in the prow-beak of each ship that sails the 
 
 seas between. 
 
 * Jackson. t Crockett. 
 
 : Haskeil. i Matt F. Maary. 
 
 2/6 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 And one came as the Cedar,* and reared his 
 
 lofty crest 
 To gather 'neath its ample boughs an empire 
 
 from the west. 
 And thousands stood as Cypresses,t when the 
 
 axe of Fate was nigh, 
 And in their moss of tatter'd gray with proud 
 
 heads in the sky, 
 Fell in the fadeless forest of Immortality. 
 
 O, children of such Deeds as these, 
 As rivers flow to make the seas. 
 Great spirits make great destinies. 
 O, sons of sires, these deeds adorn ; 
 As true as sunlight unto morn 
 Is deed that lives, to deed unborn. 
 O, maids of mothers, know ye then, 
 As purest stream from deepest glen, 
 Great mothers only rear great men. 
 Hark, now, from out his leafy throne, 
 What sings our mock-bird Mendelssohn : 
 
 Tennessee, Tennessee, 
 
 All our song goes out to thee. 
 
 From our eyries where the eagles breed the spirit 
 
 of the free 
 To the cataract that catches up the lay of liberty ; 
 From our vestal hills uplifting emerald offerings to 
 
 the sky, 
 
 * James K. Polk. t Confederate soldiers. 
 
 277 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 To the Basin in whose bosom heaven's garnered 
 
 glories lie. 
 Singing, singing, singing, as the wind sings to 
 
 the sea, 
 Clinging, clinging, clinging, as the vine clings to 
 the tree, 
 
 Songs of hope and songs of sadness, 
 Songs of home and songs of gladness, 
 Songs of thee. 
 
 Tennessee, Tennessee, 
 All our love goes out to thee. 
 From our mountains where the marble dreams of 
 
 beauty yet to be. 
 To the mighty marching river bearing bounty to 
 
 the sea ; 
 From our Eastland where the clover blossom 
 
 mocks the purple morn, 
 To the West where cotton banners mimic sunset 
 
 'mid the corn. 
 Giving, giving, giving, as the blossom gives 
 
 the bee. 
 Living, living, living, as should ever live the free, 
 Love of truth and love of beauty, 
 Love of God and love of duty, 
 Love of thee. 
 
 278 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 TO A WILD ROSE ON AN INDIAN GRAVE. 
 
 IN the pasture where the grasses are the first to 
 herald spring, 
 And the meadow lark flits upward on his para- 
 
 chutal wing, 
 Where the wild vines weave their netting and the 
 
 wild winds wander free, 
 Thou art blooming in thy beauty now, sweet rose 
 of Cherokee. 
 
 All around thee there is freedom, part and parcel 
 of thy life, 
 
 Untutored is thy every grace with native sweet- 
 ness rife./ 
 
 The spirit of the maiden whom the Choctaw 
 chieftain stole* — 
 
 Thou sprangest from her lonely grave, the rose- 
 bud of her soul. 
 
 Didst thou weave those golden leaflets, 'mid the 
 centuries long gone by, 
 
 * The legend of the Cherokee Rose is, that a Cherokee 
 maiden, being stolen by a neighboring chief, died, longing 
 to go back to her tribe. A rose was afterwards found 
 blooming on her grave* and by the Indians named in her 
 honor. 
 
 279 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 In the loom of Indian summer with the shuttles 
 of the sky ? 
 
 And that rare and dainty perfume, circling lam- 
 bent of thy birth ? — 
 
 *Tis the infant breath of nature in the May-day 
 of the earth. 
 
 In those rows of yellow pistils, platoon-formed, 
 with spears of stars. 
 
 Didst thou pilfer from the lark's breast while he 
 sang his sweetest bars ? 
 
 And that blush of faintest crimson, tingeing soft 
 thy petal's peak ? 
 
 *Tis the red bird's mirrored plumage in the dew- 
 drop on thy cheek. 
 
 In those drooping, twining branches, bending low 
 in jeweled bloom, 
 
 Thou but weavest wreaths of beauty for the 
 sleep of Beauty's tomb. 
 
 And that snowy, clust'ring garland springing up- 
 ward and above — 
 
 *Tis the risen soul of virtue in the robes of 
 virtue's love. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis many circling seasons since thou first 
 
 bloomed o'er the mound. 
 Where the Indian maiden slumbered and the wild 
 
 fawn wander'd round ; 
 Since thou heardst the Spanish bugle, saw De 
 
 Soto's steel-clad lines 
 280 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 As they trampled in their armor o*er thy timid^ 
 clinging vines. 
 
 But through all those changing seasons thou hast 
 
 reared thy modest head — 
 Nature's shaft of living marble o'er the ashes of 
 
 thy dead, 
 Teaching all the world a lesson, older than the 
 
 spangled sky — 
 The good shall live forever, and the pure shall 
 
 never die. 
 
 THE BLUE-GRASS PLOT. 
 
 OTHE blue-grass plot, the blue-grass plot, 
 Where I played in the days long gone, 
 Where the sweet grass grew 'neath the morn- 
 ing dew 
 And my life was a summer morn. 
 The wild-rose spread o'er the porch over head 
 
 And the swallows chirped sweet in their flighty 
 But the birds are fled and the roses are dead 
 And I'm far from the old home to-night. 
 
 O, the blue-grass plot, in the old back lot, 
 
 How I long to be there once more, 
 With the colts in the shade the elm tree made, 
 
 And my mother's form at the door. 
 Where the brook brawled along, with its sweet 
 glad song, 
 
 281 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And I played with my dog in his glee, 
 'Till I thought all the gleam of the sun and the 
 stream 
 Was made for my dog and for me. 
 
 O, the blue-grass plot, in the old back lot, 
 
 How I long for your cool, quiet shade ! 
 When the sun went down and the crescent crown 
 
 Of the moon 'rose over the glade, 
 How we romped on the sheen of your dewy green 
 
 With a shout and a laughter wild, 
 'Till called to our beds where three weary heads 
 
 Soon slept the sweet sleep of the child. 
 
 O, the blue-grass plot, the blue-grass plot, 
 
 O, the mem'ry of childhood days ! 
 'Tis bright as light in a cheerless night — 
 
 'Tis sweet as the hearth-stone blaze. 
 It comes with the thrill of a form that is still 
 
 And a voice now hushed forever. 
 To point our soul to that better goal — 
 
 The Grass-plot over the River. 
 
 282 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 TO A SWEET PEA. 
 
 (Which, climbing in a rose-bush, had escaped the first 
 
 frost.) 
 
 COME, little fairy, with your outstretched 
 wings 
 Uplifted, and your cloudless eyes a-dream, 
 Why are you here where late the bluebird sings, 
 And all your sisters drunk of Lethe's stream ? 
 Dost fear to die ? *Tis but a mental pain — 
 And each must sleep if each would wake again 
 
 Ah, child of rainbow and the setting sun. 
 Flirting all summer where the poppies grow. 
 
 Death came before your little task was done } 
 (He has that way, as we poor mortals 
 know !) — 
 
 Then why seek shelter 'neath the rose's breast ? 
 
 For each must sleep if each have perfect rest. 
 
 Afraid to go clad in that gaudy gown ? 
 
 Poor little dancing spirit of wild joy ! 
 God made thee such ; nor will He ever frown 
 
 On any work of His, tho' sad th' alloy. 
 Go as thou art, if honest be thy aim — 
 For God made honor everywhere the same. 
 
 283 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Nor fear to go ! On some far twinkling star 
 There is a home for butterflies like thee — 
 
 As sterner worlds for sterner spirits are, 
 So fairer worlds for sweeter beings be. 
 
 Good-by ! Some day I'll catch thy faint per- 
 fume, 
 
 And know it bloweth from immortal bloom. 
 
 THE HILLS. 
 
 1KNOW not why I love the cloud-lined hills, 
 Stretching away so faint in trembling rills 
 Of smoke-blue ether. Far away, they seem 
 Like fixed billows of the ocean — like the dream 
 Of the sea, when in his mad and wild unrest 
 He longs to sleep upon his earth-bride's breast. 
 Transfixed, his waves — in blue and brown they 
 
 stand, 
 The image of the ocean on the land. 
 The trees that tower in the twilight far 
 Are masts of bannered ships with naked spar, 
 While o'er the crest, like light-house lamp, shines 
 
 out the evening star. 
 
 And yet a-near, I know not why to me 
 They seem to speak of friendship and the glee 
 Of youth time. Orchards, purpling 'mid Octo- 
 ber days, 
 
 284 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 And grapes that climb to kiss the sun's last rays. 
 
 Breezes that turn the sunflower's saffron sail 
 
 And billows the rip'ning grain where calls the 
 quail. 
 
 Pools that gleam to stud the moss-grown front of 
 rocks, 
 
 And cooling forest depths where rest the flocks. 
 
 The hills I The hills ! Towering above the val- 
 ley's sordid clod, 
 
 Lifting the earth's dead level half-way up to God, 
 
 Yet holding all in sweet communion with the 
 mother sod. 
 
 Yon mountain, capped with its eternal snow, 
 Scorning all sweetness — e'en soft clouds below — 
 It hath no charm for me. There's no love there,, 
 No voice of birds, nor fruit-perfumed air, 
 Nor low, soft song from bivouacked tents of 
 
 hay — 
 The harvest reapers' song at close of day. 
 Alone it stands, symbol of dearth and might 
 Of naked power and grandeur's royal right 
 To look down on the tenderer things of earth 
 And scorn the sunshine love that gave them birth,. 
 And blight, as with a shroud of frost, their unas- 
 suming mirth. 
 
 So may my life be— like the hills. Not high 
 My hopes and plans, but midway 'twixt the sky 
 And stagnant land. So may my friends be. 
 Not like mountains towering o'er the sea, 
 
 285 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Wrapt in the cold splendor of a world apart — 
 With granite thoughts and barren boulder heart — 
 But high enough to tempt my gaze above 
 And low enough to catch the sunshine of my love. 
 So may my death be, like the hill, sun-riven — 
 Holding its last sweet beam from earth to catch 
 the first from heaven. 
 
 TO A MOCKING-BIRD IN THE PINE-TOP. 
 
 B 
 
 IRD of the South — sweet songster ! 
 
 Brighter than the evening star 
 
 That beams above thy perch afar 
 
 Thy song pours out, its every bar 
 
 Music'd with melody. 
 Singing in the pine-top green, 
 Of all the feathered tribe the queen — 
 A rising, falling, rippling sheen 
 
 Of flowing harmony. 
 
 Lute of the South — our Southland ! 
 Pouring from thine em'rald throne 
 On the pine tree's topmost cone 
 Notes by mortals never known, 
 
 Of sweet simplicity. 
 What sunbeams made that twinkling trill ? 
 What zephyr tuned that throat, until 
 Its life and breath and spirit fill 
 
 Thy soul of poesy } 
 286 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Mimic of the South — sly warbler, 
 
 Hast thou caught the firefly's glow 
 In the sparkle of thy flow, 
 Or gathered from the sunset's bow 
 Thy shafts of rhapsody ? 
 Magnolia blossoms in the breeze — 
 Art thou singing now of these 
 While filling Heaven's purpling frieze 
 With incense musical ? 
 
 In that calm note, soft and low, 
 Dost thou see the bayou's flow 
 Bespangled with the stars that grow 
 
 From water lilies ? 
 Or up the green decked, wooded hill 
 Where speeds the brook to water mill. 
 Is that jingling note its trill 
 
 Down ravine rushing ? 
 
 Deeper, sweeter flows the stream 
 
 All merry mad with glide and gleam 
 Until the very woodlands seem 
 
 To reel with euphony. 
 Softly sweet, 'neath paling dome, 
 Thou singest now of that true home, 
 Where we shall weep no more, nor roam, 
 
 But rest forever. 
 
 Listening to the revery note 
 
 From thy moonlit perch, there float 
 Tales of other days remote, 
 Mem'ries of chivalry. 
 287 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Tales that tell of times a-gone — 
 The cotton's banner 'mid the corn — 
 Of Charity that's ever born 
 'Mid peace and plenty. 
 
 Changing now to deeper tone 
 
 Comes a war-note from thy throne, 
 And sweetness for a season's flown 
 
 For martial measures. 
 Short and quick with bugle thrill 
 The war-drum echoes in thy trill — 
 The fife's fierce scream and trumpet fill 
 
 Thy clarion melody. 
 
 Silently — a march in Saul — 
 
 Thou changest now to fun'ral pall ; 
 Thou mournest now for those who fall 
 
 Wearing the gray. 
 Ay, weep ; for in the rush of wrong 
 That followed with the alien throng. 
 Thy people needed every song 
 
 Thy heart could give. 
 
 Hark ! another note we hear, 
 
 *Tis the plowboy's whistle clear, 
 As morning finds him with his gear. 
 
 To yoke prosperity. 
 Then, as up the sunshine gleams 
 Our night of dread melts into dreams 
 Of harvest fields and peaceful streams 
 And barns of plenty. 
 288 
 
/ 
 
 from Tennessee 
 
 Bird of the South — dear songster, 
 Sing in the pine-top, ever sing, 
 Cause all the southern air to ring, 
 Music and evergreens o'er us fling 
 
 And teach the religion of harmony. 
 Sing in the pine-top, in that tree, 
 The emblem of eternity — 
 Sing till thy people, hearing thee, 
 
 Shall live for immortality. 
 
 A HARVEST SONG. 
 
 OTHE mellow days of autumn 
 , How I love to see them come. 
 When the harvest army marches 
 To the bittern's noisy drum. 
 
 Every day is full of sweetness, every night is full 
 
 of song — 
 And the air is full of ripeness as the breezes 
 
 sweep along. 
 The mocking-bird, awakened by the flood of 
 
 soothing light, 
 Weaves a golden thread of music in the silver 
 
 woof of night. 
 While the rustling of a thousand flashing blades 
 
 amid the corn. 
 Like an army in the moonlight waits the reaper 
 
 of the morn. 
 
 19 289 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 O, the mellow days of autumn 
 How I love to see them come, 
 
 When, like an Indian princess 
 Stands the maple, and the gum. 
 
 All the earth is full of beauty, all the sky in 
 
 azure fold, 
 And the sunshine in its softness melts in dreamy 
 
 waves of gold. 
 The wild goose flying southward sounds his 
 
 startled, clarion note, 
 And the trumpet of the harvest march is in his 
 
 echoing throat, 
 While the flashing of a thousand cotton banners* 
 
 'mid the corn, 
 Like our skies, are red at evening but are silver 
 
 in the morn. 
 
 O, the mellow nights of autumn 
 When the harvest moon is queen 
 
 And the stars, like little reapers, 
 Flash their tiny blades between. 
 
 How they thrill me with a sweetness that is over- 
 sweet to last. 
 Like a glory of the present in a halo of the past, 
 And they fill my heart with achings, with a sweet 
 and tender pain, 
 
 * The cotton bloom is white in the morning and red at 
 evening. 
 
 290 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Like the memory of a music that I ne'er shall 
 hear again, 
 
 And they fill my soul with longings and they fill 
 my eyes with tears, 
 
 Like a half-forgotten laughter in the long-for- 
 gotten years. 
 
 O, the mellow nights of autumn 
 They are coming in a throng, 
 
 And the harvest moon is with them 
 And she sings the reaper's song. 
 
 THF OLD MEADOW SPRING. 
 
 DOWN through the red-top blooming in the 
 sun, 
 On to the vine-covered trees, 
 A barefoot boy through the path I'd run 
 Like a swallow on the evening breeze. 
 Quick to the big rocks cropping from the ground 
 
 'Neath the trees where the sweet birds sing, 
 With a leap and a bound I'd clamber down 
 To drink at the meadow spring. 
 
 O, the old meadow spring, 
 To its moss-grown banks I'd cling. 
 And with hat for a gourd I would quaff like a lord 
 The cool, sparkling waters of the spring. 
 
 291 
 
- Songs and Stories 
 
 Pouring from the rocks 'mid pebbles so white, 
 
 And fringing the moss with pearl, 
 Then speeding away in flashes of light 
 
 To the pool with its eddying whirl. 
 The wild mint wafts its odor from below 
 
 On the sweep of the cool wind's wing, 
 While the dark shining row of the blackberries 
 grow 
 
 On the brink of the meadow spring. 
 
 O, the old meadow spring, 
 Heaven's drink to man you bring, 
 With the mint and the red of the purpling berry 
 head 
 All mirror'd in the depths of the spring. 
 
 Stretched on the green grass, musing in the shade 
 
 (To the drip — tinkle — drip, of the stream), 
 1 wonder if above such a spot was made 
 
 For spirits in their heavenly dream. 
 Watching the water-witch dancing about 
 
 On the waves in her silvery ring, 
 With a laugh and shout I'd put her to rout 
 
 And plunge in the meadow spring. 
 
 O, the old meadow spring, 
 How I long once more to fling 
 All my burdens aside in your silvery tide. 
 And be a boy at the meadow spring. 
 
 292 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 SLEEPING. 
 
 THEY are sleeping in the valley and on the 
 glistening hills, 
 And in the wooded nooks beside the winter's 
 
 frozen rills. 
 They slumber in their glory with the perfume on 
 
 their breath, 
 Their beauty and their brightness fled before the 
 
 touch of death. 
 Their bloom life is a memory — their sweetness 
 
 but a dream 
 Of summer days and shaded ways, and nights 
 
 of starry gleam. 
 
 They are sleeping in the valley, but they'll 
 
 wake some joyous day, 
 And Spring will stand before us in the bridal 
 
 dress of May. 
 
 They are sleeping in the valley, and they wait 
 
 the Master's call — 
 The rose-buds of our hearth-stone and the lilies 
 
 of our hall. 
 The violets that bloomed down in the hot-house 
 
 of our heart, 
 
 293 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 The blue-bells of our cradles — how the quick 
 
 tears upward start ! 
 Their child-life is a memory — their visit but a 
 
 dream 
 Of childish ways and prattling days — how long 
 
 ago they seem ! 
 
 They are sleeping in the valley, but they'll 
 
 wake with joyous glee 
 When the Master holds His dear hands out, 
 
 and says : *' Come unto me." 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF MAY. 
 
 AND now she stands upon enthroning hills 
 And tosses wreaths of roses o'er the 
 world, 
 With banner'd bloom about her head unfurl'd 
 And at her feet the music loving rills 
 While winter's lingering stirrup-cup with frothy 
 clouds she fills. 
 
 The blue sky hangs above her like a veil, 
 And, dropping low, fringed with divinest lace. 
 It adds a softened shyness to that face, 
 Which, like a maid in love, now pink, now pale, 
 Needs but one look from earth to blush and tell 
 its love-blown tale. 
 
 294 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 One slipper'd foot, flushed as the blossoming 
 trees, 
 Is thrust, half-naked, in the bloom and spray 
 Of orchards, where throughout the dreamy 
 day 
 The sunshine glints the wings of weaving bees, 
 And all her children, music mad, do touch their 
 thousand keys. 
 
 And baby vines, awakening, have wound 
 And twined a bracelet bloom about her arms, 
 While Vound her waist, 'neath nestling charms, 
 A russet belt, with beaded berries bound — 
 The sun-maid's belt, dropped at her bath, which 
 lover earth had found. 
 
 And Music dreams and pines and sighs 
 Within her eyes. And Poesy is there. 
 Prophetic-faced, with sun-red, Sappho hair. 
 And Hope above, star-vestal'd vigil keeps 
 And throws a ray of ripeness o'er that face 
 where unborn Harvest sleeps. 
 
 295 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 O CLOUDS, ye are ships in the infinite blue 
 , Of the ocean of heaven — and ye sail, 
 And ye sail 
 To the harbor-gate, open to welcome you through 
 
 In the west — to the harbor-gate, pale 
 As a moon-ray reflected from the sea 
 To your sail. 
 
 O, clouds, ye are ships, and above you the dome 
 Of an infinite heaven — and ye float, 
 And ye float 
 To the beacon-star burning to welcome you home 
 
 To your rest. And lovers will gloat 
 O'er eyes that are blue and wet as the waves 
 Where you float. 
 
 SUNSET ON THE TENNESSEE. 
 
 THE valley rolls to the river 
 And the river is tinged with fire, 
 As the beams of the sunset quiver 
 Like the strings of a golden lyre. 
 And the hills, like sentinels olden, 
 296 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 In burnished steel they glow, 
 While a kiss of the sunset, golden, 
 They toss to the valley below. 
 
 The valley rolls to the river, 
 
 But the cheek of the river is wan. 
 Like the lips of a maid, when the giver 
 
 Of the kiss in the twilight is gone. 
 But the sentinel hills are bolder ; 
 
 Like giants in gloom they grow. 
 And with forest of guns at the shoulder. 
 
 They guard the valley below. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 TIP-TOE on morning star, *mid purpling light, 
 The day queen throws her kisses to the 
 world. 
 Then stands abashed a moment, as in plight 
 From maiden shyness, while around is furPd 
 The fleecy lace of clouds, with skirts of blue 
 Trailing adown to hills of azure hue. 
 
 A sudden flirting of a dew-wet wing. 
 
 As out from leafy bush or hedge-thatched lair 
 The throbbing throats at once begin to sing 
 And distant pipes fall on the sweet, cool air. 
 The cattle rise from shaded beds along, 
 And add their cow-bell cymbals to the song, 
 297 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Deep spreads the blush around Aurora's cheeks. 
 
 Purpling the bloom of ripen'd lips — and then 
 Closer she draws her drapery as she seeks 
 To hide her beauty from the eyes of men. 
 And lo ! the jealous sun leaps up to fold 
 Her melting glory in his arms of gold. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 UNDER THE PINES. 
 
 UNDER the pines with her hair in a tangle. 
 The skies in her eyes and the stars beam- 
 ing out, 
 One rosy hand clasping the green boughs above 
 her, 
 One daintily tossing the flowers about, 
 The Graces peep out from the depths of her 
 dimples, 
 The Naiads are born where her eye-glances 
 stray — 
 Under the pines, though the long years have 
 vanished. 
 Under the pines she is standing to-day ! 
 
 Under the pines ! — ah, forever and ever 
 The Nymphs build their booths and the Naiads 
 their cave. 
 And there 'neath the bowers she is tossing her 
 flowers — 
 
 298 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 For Time cannot take back the picture he 
 gave ! 
 O, life with your strife, O, d^ath with your 
 darkness, 
 Ye have taken the tinsel and left me the gold ! 
 For deep in my heart where the evergreens 
 hide her, 
 Still tossing her flowers she stands as of old. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE PINES. 
 
 FAR away, like fairy bugles, when the shades 
 of night are on, 
 Comes again the memory-music of my childhood 
 
 days agone, agone. 
 Comes again the sheen of hillside where the 
 
 long-leaf needles lay, 
 And the spots of softened sunshine flecking 
 
 through the latticed way, 
 Come again the distant echoes of my playmates 
 
 from their shrines, 
 And they come with elfm music, with the music 
 
 of the pines, 
 With the misty, memory-music of the band 
 
 among the pines. 
 
 Once again their half-heard laughter floats from 
 out the past to rise 
 
 299 
 
Sof^ and Stories 
 
 As an echo frotn hereaifler in Hat playgnuad 'arid 
 the sides; 
 
 tteiesinaBsodogs thii i H i^ my itiiri- 
 
 As tiie franloDcesse frooi flowers Hiat we : . r : 
 wUhon* dead. 
 
 And I stop Hqr work tD fistentothebeflsin mem- 
 ory's mines. 
 
 Tinkling oa the swelfing Mlsidp tD flie aasic of 
 thepioeSy 
 
 To the inif-heafd, Inlf-dreauDl mask of flie 1: i : 
 among the pines. 
 
 Now 1 see the yellow sunlight sifted thrcm^ the 
 
 aeve of spears. 
 And I hear the zephyr Euflabies ol fang foig u ite a 
 
 years. 
 How the band above ne Onnders as tiie swmyiig 
 
 tree tops shake ! 
 And now it: faOs ms cahnly sweet as siarp^rt on 
 
 a lake. 
 And as the passing pinions sweep above Id I^Sog 
 
 fines^ 
 1 ahnost see the angels in lliat band anMMUg the 
 
 See the amgels as they sii^ and swing and the 
 s way ing pines. 
 
 O, how often in the ^ory of ttie days 
 
 JOO 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 I have drunk the crooning story of that mimic 
 Alpine horn. 
 
 There's a solace in its soughing that no earthly 
 music brings, 
 
 There's a cadence in its wooing never heard in 
 court of kings, 
 
 There's a rhythm in the rustle of its low en- 
 chanting lines, 
 
 For heaven's sweetest zephyrs made the music 
 of the pines, 
 
 Swept the lyre of lyric needles in that band 
 among the pines. 
 
 I have heard the martial music of a conquering 
 
 army come 
 With the blare of boastful bugle and the thunder 
 
 of the drum. 
 I have mused upon the measures of a sweet 
 
 Italian band 
 Till my reeling spirit wandered as a bird in Eden- 
 land ; 
 But there is no earthly music e'er conceived in 
 
 mortal minds 
 Like the music of my childhood in the band 
 
 among the pines. 
 Like the music that I ne'er shall hear again from 
 
 out the pines. 
 
 301 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 H 
 
 EART of the sunset sky — 
 Sleeping so quietly, 
 Flushed with the pinkness of sleep and of rest. 
 Heart of the sleeping sky — 
 Throbbing with ecstasy — 
 Pulsing the pink through the breast of the west. 
 
 Soul of the dying sky — 
 
 Dying so quietly, 
 Melting and merging in shadows of night. 
 
 Soul of the dying sky. 
 
 Dying — yet gloriously. 
 Living again in thy life and thy light. 
 
 TO A MORNING GLORY. 
 
 THOU art the dream of Nature when she 
 sleeps 
 And dreams of youth-time and sweet April's 
 eyes, 
 And slum'bring now, lo ! 'round her breast there 
 creeps 
 This pictured vision of departed skies. 
 
 ^02 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Departed skies, concaved, with clouds of 
 
 snow 
 Cerulean-deptlied, that left us long ago. 
 
 And thou art Nature's memory when she wakes 
 All conscience-clear and weeping o'er the past, 
 Clear-visioned, keen, her yearning soul partakes 
 Of that which was, but was too pure to last. 
 And so she holds, with soft light break- 
 ing low, 
 Holds to her heart the hopes of long ago. 
 
 THE SUMMER OF LONG AGO. 
 
 DO you know the land, the fairest land 
 In the mythical realms of old } 
 Where the earth and the air, and the flowers rare 
 
 All sleep 'neath a sun of gold .? 
 Where the elf-king's bugle in winding note 
 Drowns the dreamy drum in the black bee's 
 throat, 
 And the fairy queen floats in her peach-bloom 
 boat ? 
 The fire-flies dance where the lily-maids meet 
 And the flowers are dreams that lie at your feet 
 In the Summer of Long Ago. 
 
 Do you know the land, the sweetest land. 
 In the rhythmical realms of old ? 
 
 303 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Where the moon and her beams bring the 
 romancing gleams 
 Of a love you never have told ? 
 Where the star king's horsemen in platoons of 
 light 
 Bring your soul-secret love on a palfrey of 
 white, 
 And her lips meet your lips ere she taketh her 
 flight ? 
 The will-o'-wisp drops like a star from the sun, 
 And the brooklets are poems that rhyme as 
 they run 
 
 In the Summer of Long Ago. 
 
 Have you seen the queen of that beautiful land 
 
 In the radiant realms of old ? 
 With eyes like the stars of the May-pop bars, 
 
 And throat like the lily's fold ? 
 Queen of your home in that yet-to-be day, 
 
 To hold you in bondage forever and aye, 
 Yet to love and to cherish, to bless and obey — 
 
 And queen even now in a kingdom above — 
 The little sweetheart you first learned to love 
 In the Summer of Long Ago. 
 
 304 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 TRUTH IN BEAUTY. 
 
 ** Beauty is truth, truth beauty " — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
 — Keats — Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
 
 (To a gifted organist.) 
 
 SOOTHED is my spirit when you touch the 
 keys, 
 And, like a cloud, my soul floats far away ; 
 My throbbing fancies throng as dreaming bees 
 To suck the flowers that spring up when you 
 play— 
 O, that I thus at last might sip and pass 'mid 
 sweets away ! 
 
 Whence comes such rapturous pain from simple 
 bars, 
 Such tender-hurting, joy-bewidowM sweet ? 
 Such pouring glory — cataract of stars — 
 Bubbles of beauty bursting at my feet. 
 Or floating into dreamland streams where Fay 
 and Fancy meet ? 
 
 The rainbow gleams along that splendid arch 
 Where from your fingers fall the quivering 
 drops. 
 20 305 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And now, sunset ; and now the misty march 
 Of timbrel-twinkling planets, o'er the tops 
 Of organ-chords, aeolian-peaked, with star-em- 
 blazoned stops. 
 
 Above the earth, above the wheeling flight 
 
 Of mute, yet clearest pealing minstrelsy — 
 One glimpse of that which made creation 
 bright. 
 One glimpse of first love's sun of ecstacy — 
 Then down to earth where musick'd streams purl 
 with pebbled symphony. 
 
 O, thus to live — thus ever, ever live. 
 
 Wedded to Art, with handmaid Hope at side, 
 Crushing her lips with lips that dare to give 
 The winter tempest for the summer tide — 
 For sweetest of all weddings yet is that where 
 Art is bride. 
 
 O, thus to love, forever, ever love, 
 
 Changeless in beauty and star-lived in grace. 
 To hear but the rustle of her robes above — 
 To catch the star-beams from her fountained 
 face — 
 For dearer is Art's finger-kiss than Passion's 
 whole embrace ! 
 
 O Faith, O Hope — the poet and his sky — 
 O Joy, O Death — the bondman and the 
 freed — 
 
 306 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 O Love, you, too, must bow beneath that eye 
 Where naught of earth, or earthy, hath a 
 breed — 
 For infant Truth a greater hero is than gray- 
 haired Deed, 
 
 Truth which comes in Beauty, as to-night 
 Comes this sweet Truth in simple harmony — 
 
 Calming the quick waves of my soul's affright. 
 And from the depths of an unsounded sea, 
 Starting this broken wave above a sea of melody. 
 
 THE FAITH OF OLD. 
 
 THE years with their changes come, and the 
 years with their plans unfold. 
 But give me the peace my heart hath known in 
 
 the sweet dream-days of old. 
 It comes to my soul to-night, like the dream of a 
 
 dream at dawn. 
 Like the smell of the rain on the ripen'd grain, at 
 
 the first flush of the morn, 
 Then rush with the maddened throng, and battle 
 
 for fame and gold, 
 And furl your flags 'mid the wrath of wrong — I'll 
 
 cling to the peace of old. 
 
 The years with their follies come, with their fol- 
 lies and then their woe ; 
 
 307 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 But give me the hope of the years I knew in the 
 
 summer of long ago. 
 It comes to my heart to-night like the song of the 
 
 birds and the bees, 
 Like the blue of the skies that over them rise and 
 
 the sway of the leaf in the trees. 
 Then follow the fickle throng, and clamor both 
 
 loud and bold, 
 And drown Truth's voice with the drums of 
 
 Wrong — ril cling to the hope of old. 
 
 The years with their visions come, and go, as a 
 
 tale that is told — 
 But give me the faith my mother taught in the 
 
 bright, glad days of old. 
 It comes to my soul to-night, and 1 know there's 
 
 a God above. 
 Else why should I long, in an infinite song, to tell 
 
 of the depths of love ? 
 Then kneel to the tinseled knave, and offer your 
 
 soul at his shrine — 
 You bind your wreaths on the brow of a slave- — 
 
 ril cling to the hand Divine. 
 
 308 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 CHRISTMAS MORN. 
 
 IN the beauty of its breaking, in the music of its 
 dawn, 
 Like an angel chorus 'waking when the 
 Heavenly day is born, — 
 
 Comes again the day of promise, 
 Comes again the Christmas morn. 
 Beam, bright Eastern sky in glory, till our doubt 
 
 clouds roll away ; 
 Ring, sweet Christmas bells, the story, — ring for- 
 ever and for aye, 
 
 Till our living be but loving 
 And our dying be but day. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 MY love and I sailed out to sea 
 When the dream days came with purpling 
 sky. 
 And her laugh was the winds at play, to me, 
 And her eyes the stars I guided by. 
 Her hand touched mine, 'mid the breaker's roar, 
 And new strength came to the lagging oar — 
 
 309 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Her lips met mine in the tempest's blast 
 And new life flashed in Lhe straining mast. 
 
 My love and I sailed out to sea, 
 
 And life was full and sweet for me, 
 
 Till our boat plunged under a death-wave dark- 
 
 And 1 sailed alone in a drifting barque ! 
 
 Now the skies are gray, and the winds at play 
 
 Mourn drearily o'er the sea all day, 
 
 And I look in vain through the fog and rain 
 
 For the wave that will bring me to her again. 
 
 ^ '%' '%' 
 
 TO WHITTIER. DEAD. 
 
 AY, speed I'r.yj on, gray voyager, 
 But not to a breezeless sea ! 
 Nor shall oblivion claim the soul 
 That lived and loved in thee. 
 
 The heart that throbbed for others, 
 The mind that thought no wrong, 
 
 The lips that always spoke the truth 
 Through soul of courage strong, 
 
 O, these shall live forever, 
 God gave them, not to die, 
 
 But sweetly bloom above thy tomb 
 Through all eternity. 
 
 310 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE HEART. 
 
 D' 
 
 EEP in the dales of the human heart, 
 Deep in the dells of the soul, 
 Where the springs of the innermost passions start, 
 Where the brooks of Hope and Happiness part 
 
 And the flowers of life unfold, 
 Is a temple whose vespers rise and swell. 
 Yet it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 
 
 *Tis loftier far than the dome of the sky, 
 
 'Tis deeper down than the sea. 
 It catches the gleam of the stars as they fly 
 And the music they make as they wander by 
 
 With their heavenly minstrelsy. 
 Music — but whence no mortal can tell — 
 For it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 
 
 No glitter of tinsel, no blight of gold, 
 
 No fashion of rank and lies, 
 No creeds in their coffined urns of old. 
 Where the dust lies deep on their hearts of mold. 
 
 No altar where prides arise — 
 And yet no cathedrals in beauty excel — 
 Tho' it hath no priest a'nd it hath no bell. 
 
 And here hath the crushed and the desolate 
 
 prayed 
 From the depth of their soul's despair, 
 311 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 And hither hath sad-eyed Sorrow strayed. 
 And outcast Hope hath sobbed and laid 
 
 Her head on the altar there. 
 And never Anathema rings their knell, 
 For it hath no priest and it hath no bell! 
 
 O, glorious church of the heart divine — 
 (O, conscience — priest to us all !) 
 High o'er the world may your sweet dome shine- 
 With your silent priest in this heart of mine — 
 
 And the image of Love on your wall. 
 O, Church of the heart — 'tis there God dwells 
 Tho' it hath no priests and it hath no bells ! 
 
 THE CHRIST-STAR HAS RISEN. 
 
 T 
 
 TWILIGHT and Christmas Eve- 
 Sky bright with starry weave, 
 Moonlight and music o'er earth and in air, 
 Sweet bell and swelling note, 
 Heart-hopes that rise and float 
 Faith-winged to heaven in flash-lights of prayer. 
 
 Sunrise and Christmas morn. 
 
 Love lies so lowly born — 
 
 Heaven and Human in meekness have met; 
 
 Hope — tho' the light be low, 
 
 Faith — through the blight and blow — 
 
 The Christ-star has risen, it never will set ! 
 
 312 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 OTHE mem'ry of the mistletoe that graced 
 that Christmas scene ! 
 And the berries in the holly wreath like rosebuds 
 
 red between, 
 And the smell of fragrant cedar, even yet an 
 evergreen. 
 
 O, the beauty of the dainty hands that twined 
 
 the holly through. 
 And the snowy neck and cheeks that made the 
 
 roses blush anew. 
 Now 1 never smell the cedar but I see the maiden, 
 
 too. 
 
 O, the glory and the story in those eyes of tender 
 
 trust ! 
 Not all the world of sermons can convince me 
 
 they are dust, 
 For the starlight lives forever and love's mem'ry 
 
 hath no rust ! 
 
 Up in heaven with the angels she is twining 
 
 wreaths to-night. 
 In her Father's many mansions 'mid the dazzling 
 
 glory-light 
 She has laid aside a love-wreath for one tired in 
 
 the fight. 
 
 S^3 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 EULALEE. 
 
 Eulalee, sweet Eulalee, 
 The years have passed, but still I see 
 Your laughing eyes 'neath snood of red, 
 And the bending skies of blue overhead. 
 The partridge calls 'mid the dreamy corn, 
 For the night dew falls and the shades creep on, 
 And I say *'good night/' for the grass is wet. 
 And your last words are — " I love you yet !" 
 
 Eulalee, sweet Eulalee, 
 The stars now roll 'twixt you and me. 
 But I see your snood through the milky way. 
 And your eyes beyond the starry ray. 
 Your laughter comes with the sunbeams free 
 And the dews that fall are your tears for me. 
 And up to heaven, with hot cheeks wet, 
 1 look and hear — " I love you yet !*' 
 
 A MORNING RIDE. 
 
 AWAY ! away ! the coming day 
 Breaks o'er the East in fans of gray, 
 And purpling high the glowing sky. 
 Blushes before the Master's eye. 
 
 314 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Steady, Marie ! my rein is free, 
 Canter a bit in coltish glee, 
 Your easy gallop is wine to me. 
 
 Away ! away ! the new-mown hay 
 
 Has scented all the valleys gay. 
 
 The cool, moist air is thick, but rare 
 
 With odor never known elsewhere. 
 
 Come, now, Marie ! you change, I see, 
 To single-foot, so swift and free — 
 A palace car is a cart to thee ! 
 
 Away ! away ! no stop nor stay. 
 
 Hark ! Heard you e'er such music, pray ? 
 
 What melting rout now falls about 
 
 To tell the mocking-bird is out ! 
 
 Come, come, Marie ! I'm watching thee ! 
 
 A fickle miss 1 fear you be 
 
 To change to running walk with me. 
 
 Away ! away ! ah ! primrose gay 
 You're dressed, I see, for the race to-day, 
 And in the bloom of his feath'ry plume 
 The alder lends you his perfume. 
 
 Then go, Marie ! show them, for me, 
 How the swallow skims the crystal sea — 
 The pacing queen one day you'll be ! 
 
 315 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 How like a second nature to our souls 
 Is immortality. 'Tis not of earth, 
 But comes a ray from heaven, that unfolds 
 The budding instinct of another birth. 
 
 Who from the void can make a man but God ? 
 
 And if God make him, shall He then ordain 
 That, having breathed upon the senseless clod, 
 
 Back to the void shall turn His work again ? 
 Through endless time no more nor yet no less 
 
 Than making man for woe and wretchedness ? 
 
 Away the thought ! The deathless Deed that 
 springs 
 
 From out its dust-encumbered home of clay, 
 And, like a beam of morning, folds its wings 
 
 Only 'mid the twilight of a perfect day — 
 This cannot die ! 'Tis part of God himself, 
 
 A heart-throb of Infinity ! 
 
 The Thought that spans the arch of silent stars, 
 
 Scaling the rugged battlements, where rise 
 The roof above time's own grim prison bars — 
 
 Searching beneath the shadows of eternal skies 
 For captive Truth — this cannot die ! 'Tis God's 
 own child 
 Exiled to earth, now seeking home again ! 
 
 316 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 LIFE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 THE faint, sweet light breai<s over the hills, 
 To waken the chords of memory's bells 
 And bring us Christmas morning. 
 O, Christmas morning, fresh and clear, 
 Is this your token of a glad New Year ? 
 Is this your emblem of a good new cheer 
 To come with your hallowed dawning ? 
 
 The glad east glows with resplendent beam 
 And wakens from sleep a childhood's dream 
 
 Of a Christmas gone forever. 
 O, childhood's Christmas, now no more, 
 Come from the sheen of that evergreen shore ! 
 Come with your faith and your hope of yore — 
 
 Come with your honest endeavor. 
 
 The bold, bright sun mounts up to his throne 
 With eagle speed through the paling zone, 
 
 And manhood's Christmas hangs o'er us. 
 O, manhood's Christmas, bold and strong, 
 Give us your boldness to battle the wrong, 
 Give us your power the fight to prolong — 
 
 Shine in your glory before us. 
 
 The pale west glows with a purpling light. 
 That rolls in serried columns bright. 
 Where the day king's banners rally. 
 317 
 
Soi^ and Stories 
 
 But now 'tis gone, and zr: 
 O, tiien may our good irri- _ : t 
 And our past pure thoughts be : _ r 
 To I^Jit our way : _ ; : r i ey. 
 
 s 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 WEET is the grace of beauty, and it holds 
 The imprisoDed ear^ within its rac&int 
 
 folds. 
 It steals upon as fike the rosy hue 
 Of morning's blu^ and whfle the sweet cool 
 
 dew 
 Moistens amd freshens the dead grass of our hope. 
 It bursts like love-stars on our horoscope. 
 Uke CMan's locks, her Hashing charms deter 
 Yet make the l^it by winch we worship her. 
 The eyes of children, flute notes of a bird. 
 Flowers that 'round them bea^ng dewdrops gird. 
 Skies of Mue and gold at wedfing mom, 
 Ups that toudi wtien sweet young love is bom. 
 These strew her pathway. Iris-crowned they rise 
 When beauty's sun lights up life's 'wakening 
 sides. 
 
 318 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 IT CAN NOT BE. 
 
 IT can not be that this poor life shall end us ! 
 God*s words are truthful and His ways ar/ 
 just. 
 He would not here to sin and sorrow send us, 
 And then blot out our souls with **dust to 
 dust;" 
 Saving our clay, and back to Nature giving, 
 Smothering our soul ere it hath had its living. 
 It can not be ! 
 
 It can not be that One so just and perfect 
 
 Would make a perfect universe, and plan 
 The star of all should be at last imperfect — 
 Life, yet leave that life half-lived in wretched 
 man. 
 Forever lives the gross — the dead material — 
 Forever dies the life — the spark imperial ? 
 It can not be ! 
 
 It can not be, for life is more than living ; 
 
 It can not be, for death is more than dream. 
 Think ye to clod God daily life is giving, 
 
 Yet from the grave shut out the grander beam ? 
 Night is but day ere it hath had its dawning — 
 Death a brief night, and waiteth for the morning, 
 Which soon shall be ! 
 
 319 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Thou art not dead, dear one, I know thou livest, 
 Thou art not dead, for still the bright stars 
 shine. 
 Thou art not dead, for yet the live sun giveth 
 Light — and had he e'er so sweet a light as 
 thine ? 
 Good-night ! — good*bye, were sorrow's grave of 
 
 sorrow ! 
 Good-night ! — for we shall live and love to- 
 morrow, 
 
 Because God lives ! 
 
 A LITTLE CRY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 A LITTLE cry in the night, 
 And fainter still at the dawn, 
 And the shadows creep — then endless sleep. 
 Before the day is gone. 
 
 A little cry in the night. 
 
 So weak and yet so clear ; 
 For many a day has passed away 
 
 And yet that cry I hear. 
 
 That little cry in the night — 
 
 With the pleading eyes of blue — 
 
 Wondering why, with their little cry, 
 They must live and suffer too. 
 320 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Must suffer and then must sleep, 
 Tho' their day had just begun — 
 
 A little pain, then night again, 
 And their little task undone. 
 
 A little cry in the night — 
 A clear, sweet voice at even : 
 
 ** My little cry was just good-bye, 
 Vm waiting for you in heaven.*' 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 'TIS BUT A DREAM. 
 
 DEEP in the night a timid, pleading voice, 
 A curly head above my pillow bent, 
 A sob, partaking part of Hope's rejoice. 
 
 And part of Doubt's despair and sad lament. • 
 Dear nestling head — sweet sleep ! The first sun- 
 beam : 
 " O, Father, I'm so glad 'twas but a dream !" 
 
 Methinks I, too, shall wake some gracious morn. 
 After life's dream and death's deep hushed 
 night, 
 
 And as God's presence ushers in the dawn. 
 And His smile makes an aureole of light. 
 
 Then will the past a fretful vision seem : 
 
 ** O, Father, I'm so glad 'twas but a dream !" 
 
 21 
 
 321 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 THE PINES OF MONTEREY. 
 
 O SHADOW in a maiden's eye 
 , Is love that once has been ! 
 O, sweet moon-rainbow in the sky 
 That shuts our poor life in ! 
 1 see the young morn blushing, I see the cheek 
 of May 
 Come paling, pinking, flecking, flushing — 
 Through the pines of Monterey. 
 
 Dear evergreens of memory — 
 Sweet garlands of the past — 
 The festooned frame of pictured sky 
 That will forever last ! 
 I hear the faint bells ringing, I feel the breath of 
 May 
 Come soughing, soughing, sobbing, singing — 
 Through the pines of Monterey. 
 
 O, voices of the present day, 
 Vain sounds upon a blast — 
 Leave me, let me weep away 
 The sweet tears of the past. 
 I hear her dear voice calling, I hear her voice 
 to-day 
 Come laughing, lingering, falt'ring, falling — 
 Through the pines of Monterey. 
 322 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 TO AN AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 BE manly, lad — your folks have made 
 Their way by work and waiting, 
 Be manly, lad — a spade's a spade 
 
 Though it hath a silver plating. 
 For all must work or all must steal — 
 
 What's idleness but stealing ? 
 To each will come his woe and weal 
 
 His weak or strong revealing. 
 And work makes brains, but error's chains 
 
 Are forged in fashion's idleness ! 
 
 Be honest, lad — you weaker grow 
 
 From gain that's falsely gotten. 
 Be honest, lad — what's outward show 
 
 When all within is rotten .? 
 For each must live or each must die — 
 
 What's honor lost, but dying ? 
 To live with Truth and you a lie ! — 
 
 Was ever death more trying ? 
 And Truth makes men — but falsehood's den 
 
 Is the home of dwarfs and pigmies ! 
 
 323 
 
SoQg^ and 
 
 OURBOBL 
 
 w 
 
 Ibe dower 
 
 ' ey first: ieei fte plw, 
 
 ~ 'fat Souky^s bnm, 
 
 - ^cw, 
 senses 
 • - :: : . :w,« 
 
 i - 
 
 Ui. X _ 
 
 S«4 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 TO BURNS. 
 
 THERE is no death for genius, for it leaps, 
 Fount-like, from source to limpid depths 
 again. 
 There is no death for genius, for it sleeps 
 To wake refreshed in each new life's sweet 
 pain. 
 O, Burns, how rich and sweet thy stream of 
 song, 
 Pouring from mountain dale and hawthorn 
 glen, 
 Bright as the channel where Ayr flashed along, 
 Deep as the sea beyond Ben Lomond's ken. 
 Bubbling, it bursts out like thy mountain springs, 
 Out from the cool depths of great nature's 
 mart. 
 Slaking the fevered thirst oUr life toil brings, 
 Reflecting all the star-domes of our heart. 
 Here at thy fount, O, let me drink and know 
 That God still reigns and man is king below. 
 
 325 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 WORK THROUGH IT ALL. 
 
 HOPE, tho'. misfortune o'ertake you, 
 Smile, tho' you go to the wall, 
 Bend to the blast that would break you, 
 But work, aye, work through it all. 
 
 Weep, when the cloud of your sorrow 
 Comes with its mist and its pall, 
 
 But tears make your rainbow to-morrow 
 If you work as you weep — through it all. 
 
 Give, for you grow with the giving, 
 Live, but with love at your call, 
 
 Be brave, be a man in your living. 
 And work as a man through it all. 
 
 Look up, as the weaver of laces. 
 Your pattern hung high on the wall, 
 
 Your soul on the beauty it traces. 
 Your hands busy working withal. 
 
 326 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 MOLLIE. 
 
 No fern-leaf sprang from mountain-moss, 
 With blither grace than Mollie's, 
 No lily on the lake across 
 
 Had fairer face than Mollie's. 
 And when the lily lifted up 
 The bubbling bubbles in her cup 
 From cut-glass pools where fern-maid*s sup. 
 She drank a health to Mollie. 
 
 No wild-sloe hid, 'neath tan and red, 
 
 A ruddier blush than Mollie's, 
 No wild-rose held a queenlier head 
 
 Where sang the thrush than Mollie's. 
 And when the red-thrush saw the maid — 
 A glint of glory down the glade — 
 He sang his sweetest serenade, 
 
 A serenade for Mollie. 
 
 No muscadine peeped from her vine 
 With saucier eyes than Mollie's. 
 
 No wild-bee sought her globes of wine 
 With softer sighs than Mollie's, 
 
 For when she sighed, and I did make 
 
 Me bold, a trembling kiss to take, 
 
 I saw them all — wine, roses, lake — 
 All in the eyes of Mollie. 
 327 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 O VOICES THAT LONG AGO LEFT ME. 
 
 O VOICES that long ago left me, 
 O eyes that were long ago bright, 
 How often you come when the shadows 
 
 Creep into the eyes of the night, 
 When the moon-misted shadow encloses 
 
 The sorrow-starred eyes of the night — 
 With you in a wreathing of roses 
 And rhymed in the laughter of light. 
 
 O, voices that long ago left me, 
 
 O, eyes that were long ago bright, 
 Why, why do you come with the shadows 
 
 And why do you not with the light — 
 In the sun-shimmer'd glory of olden, 
 
 In the sun-silvered sweetness of light ? 
 Have you learned that our tears become golden 
 
 When merged with the music of flight ? 
 
 Then lead me, dear voices that left me, 
 
 And bring me, dear eyes that were bright, 
 To that home where you now dwell forever. 
 
 To that land where there never is night — 
 To that love-ling'ring land where the portal 
 
 Knows naught of the shadow of night, 
 And the wreathing of roses immortal 
 
 Is rhymed with the laughter of light. 
 328 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 A RAY FROM CALVARY. 
 
 O CHRISTMAS, happy Christmas, in the 
 days that bring their cheer, 
 
 One thought amid the centuries grows brighter 
 every year : 
 
 That not alone for man was made the sweet- 
 ness of thy birth, 
 
 And not alone for him was decked the holly- 
 wreathed earth. 
 
 But all that on Him doth depend, like Him might 
 blessed be, 
 
 And catch the reflex of that ray that fell from 
 Calvary. 
 
 u 
 
 MARJORIE. 
 
 P in the hills of Tennessee 
 Lives Marjorie — sweet Marjorie. 
 
 There ain't a bird but stops his song 
 When down the lane she rides along- 
 Stops his singin' just to stare 
 And wonder where she got that hair 
 So deeply golden, floatin' there ! 
 And why her eyes ain't baby blue 
 329 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Instead of twilight beamin' through ? 
 (For birds do know a thing or two !) 
 They know that wavy, rosy flout 
 Of sunset tress in dreamy rout 
 Should have some sky of blue about. 
 But when them eyes, full to the brim 
 Of stars and love, look up at them, 
 And daylight blush o'er cheek is spread 
 From cheeks just pulped to melon red, 
 And o'er that sweet dream face is born 
 The light that kind o' comes with morn, 
 They ketch their breaths and sing away- 
 She's turned their eve to break o' day 1 
 
 Up in the hills of Tennessee 
 Lives Marjorie — brave Marjorie. 
 
 Loud boomed the Harpeth, as adown 
 She rode like mad to Franklin town. 
 The Judge's daughter — the county's star- 
 (For years I'd worshiped her afar !) 
 *' Too high in life," they whispered me, 
 ** To look with favor, lad, on thee." 
 But love will climb to star itself — 
 What careth it for worldly pelf ? 
 The Judge was stricken ; to the ford, 
 A keen plum switch for stingin' goad, 
 Her saddle mare like mad she rode ! 
 Forgetting flood and angry wave 
 She spurred — her father's life to save ! 
 (Alas, her own she all but gave.) 
 330 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Plowin' that day on the horse-shoe side, 
 
 I stopped when 1 saw her frantic ride. 
 
 I rushed where the tall creek willows grow — 
 
 Where the swirling waters roared below — 
 
 I waved, I beckoned, shouted— all 
 
 Were lost in the lashing water's fall ! 
 
 I saw the mare swept from her feet, 
 
 I saw an emptied saddle seat. 
 
 I plunged — what cared 1 for the roar, 
 
 Born, as I was, on the Harpeth shore ? 
 
 What to me was my burden frail, 
 
 I, who could lift a cotton bale ? 
 
 Did e'er an arm that had tossed the wheat 
 
 Hold before a bundle so sweet ? 
 
 But Harpeth was mad as a frenzied colt, 
 And shot his flood like a thunderbolt. 
 The big waves swept with giant scorn. 
 And once I thought we both were gone ! 
 Did she know it, then, when a kiss I brushed 
 On cheek that e'en in the waters blushed ? 
 Did she hear the words of love I said ? 
 (I couldn't help it — I thought she was dead !) 
 Struggling, battling, I landed, but could 
 Not meet her eyes — she understood. 
 **I'm safe," she said, and my hand she 
 
 took, 
 (And gave me one, just one love look,) 
 *' Now mount your horse, for the doctor ride ; 
 Save my father and — I'm your bride !" 
 
 331 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Up in the hills of Tennessee 
 Lives Marjorie — dear Marjorie. 
 
 You can't climb up that tall hill there 
 And look way down that valley fair. 
 But what your gaze will rest on ground 
 That's mine — all mine — for miles around. 
 That Jersey herd, that bunch of mares, 
 Them frisky colts with all their airs. 
 That Southdown flock in yonder dell, 
 Followin' the tinklin' wether-bell, 
 Them barns and paddocks gleaming white, 
 That home shut in with God's own light, 
 And all them fields of wheat and corn 
 That sweep clear down to Amberhorn. 
 I earned 'em all — no gamblin' tricks, 
 But hones' work and tellin' licks. 
 
 But best of all, 'twixt you and me. 
 That girl is mine — my Marjorie ! 
 
 BLUE JAY. 
 
 OTHE world is all against you. Blue Jay, 
 , Blue Jay ; 
 O, the world is all against you now, I say, 
 With your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 
 And your jay ! jay ! jay I 
 332 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 And your saucy, whistling wheedle 
 Just before you fly away 
 To pounce down on the juciest and the sweetest 
 
 roasting ear ; 
 To steal the ripest Concords in the sunshine 
 
 purpling near ; 
 To run off all the song-birds with your blustering, 
 
 bragging tongue, 
 And break the hearts of mother birds by eating 
 
 up their young — 
 Then to perch up on the highest limb upon the 
 
 apple tree 
 And call up mourners 'round you with your 
 tweedle, tweedle, twee' ! 
 You're a robber, robber, robber, 
 
 Blue Jay, Blue Jay, 
 And a hypocrite and bully. 
 As all the world doth say. 
 
 O, the world is all against you. Blue Jay, Blue 
 
 Jay; 
 O, the world is all against you now, I say, 
 But your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 
 
 And your jay ! jay I jay I 
 And your saucy, laughing wheedle 
 Brought again to me, to-day, 
 The time we stole together, in the summer long 
 
 ago, 
 The cherries and the peaches and the grapes of 
 purple glow. 
 
 333 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 The day we climbed the chestnut for the yellow 
 
 hammer's nest, 
 And you gave it up, disconsolate, because I 
 
 robbed the best ! 
 And I see the old home once again, the fig trees 
 
 in the sun, 
 While a boy slips all around them with a single- 
 barrel gun, 
 And he brings it to his shoulder as he sees a bob- 
 bing head — 
 Bang ! and he's a murderer — for old Blue Jay is 
 dead ! 
 
 Was I a robber, robber, 
 
 In the summer long ago, 
 When I barbecued and ate you 
 With my sportsman's pride aglow ? 
 
 Ah, some grown-up folks are like you, Blue Jay, 
 
 Blue Jay ; 
 Ah, some grown-up folks are like you now, I say — 
 For they tweedle, tweedle, tweedle. 
 
 When they wish to have their way, 
 And they wheedle, wheedle, wheedle. 
 In their tricks of trade to-day. 
 And they pounce upon their fellow-man and steal 
 
 his very best — 
 His eggs of reputation, and his cherries — happi- 
 ness. 
 And you'll find their crops distended with the 
 plunder they have won, 
 334 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 While their tongues are shooting slander (ah, 'tis 
 
 worse than any gun), 
 And they thrive and fill and fatten till they go 
 
 to get their due 
 In another world — Oh, Blue Jay, won't they 
 make a barbecue ? 
 
 Then sing away your robber song 
 
 Of jay ! jay I jay ! 
 Till some robber mortal comes along 
 And sees himself to-day. 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 'T^IS the coward who quits to misfortune, 
 1 'Tis the knave who changes each day, 
 
 'Tis the fool who wins half the battle, 
 Then throws all his chances away. 
 
 There is little in life but labor. 
 
 And to-morrow may find that a dream ; 
 
 Success is the bride of Endeavor, 
 And luck — but a meteor's gleam. 
 
 The time'to succeed is when others, 
 Discouraged, show traces of tire, 
 
 The battle is fought in the homestretch — 
 And won — 'twixt the flag and the wire ! 
 335 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 WHEN THE COLTS ARE IN THE RING. 
 
 (As Riley would see it.) 
 
 OTHE fair time, the rare time, I can feel it 
 , in the air. 
 As we take our brimming baskets and go out to 
 
 see the fair ; 
 The lasses decked with ribbons red, the colts 
 
 with ribbons blue — 
 What a trial for the gallant lads to choose between 
 
 the two ! 
 No season of old mother earth can half such 
 
 blessings bring 
 When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts 
 
 are in the ring. 
 
 O, the beauty of the bonnie curls— the rapture of 
 
 the race ! 
 O ! the maiden with the pretty foot — the filly 
 
 that can pace ! 
 The one in russet harness with a halter I can 
 
 hold, 
 But the other's got me harnessed in her wavy 
 
 hair of gold. 
 O, the autumn time is full of joy and every 
 
 goodly thing, 
 
 33^ 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts 
 are in the ring. 
 
 O, the fair time, the rare time, when the Jer- 
 seys set the pace 
 
 In a sheen of silken colors and a skin of chrome 
 lace. 
 
 And the Berkshires tie their tails up in a lovely 
 Psyche knot. 
 
 And the Shorthorns and the Shropshires and 
 Southdowns make it hot. 
 
 *M wouldn't live here always,*' is the doleful 
 song they sing. 
 
 Who never loved a maiden while the colts were 
 in the ring. 
 
 O, the fair time, the rare time, in our life a ver- 
 dant spot, 
 
 When the people are all jolly and their trials are 
 forgot ; 
 
 And I sit and muse in fancy to the days so long ago 
 
 When I sparked my little sweetheart out to see 
 the County show. 
 
 Since then old Time has made me dance — to-day 
 I'll make him sing, 
 
 For the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are 
 in the ring. 
 
 22 
 
 337 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 FAIR TIMES IN OLD TENNESSEE. 
 
 FAIR time in oie Tennessee, days jes' to yer 
 makin', 
 
 Nights so cool an' crispy, jes' the kind for 'pos- 
 sum shakin', 
 
 Mornin's bright wid sun an' light of frosty dew 
 an' flashy, 
 
 Weather jes' the kind to make the little nigger 
 ashy ! 
 
 Bacon in de rafters, sorghum mills er grindin' 
 sweetin', 
 
 Punkins in de hay loft an' religun in de meetin' ! 
 
 Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body gwine, 
 Wagginsfull o'prittygals,dair ribbons jes' a-flyin'. 
 Pikes jes' full o' people, an' de woods jes' full o' 
 
 niggers 
 A-leadin' ob de pacin' colts wid marks down in 
 
 de figgers. 
 Hoss an' jack an' jinny an' Jersey bull, all 
 
 gwineter 
 Git dar, 'kase deys brudders to dat good ole hoss, 
 
 Hal Pinter ! 
 
 Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body stirrin'— 
 Cl'ar de road, dair comes er fool a'whippin' an' 
 a'spurrin' ' 
 
 338 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Look out dair yo' nigger, Julius Sezer Andrer 
 
 Asker ! 
 Lead dat pesky jack erside and let dis Hal boss 
 
 pass, suh ! 
 Dun fergot your raisin', eh ? Fust thing dat you 
 
 kno', suh, 
 You think de State ob Tennessee dun drap on 
 
 you, fer sho', suh ! 
 
 Fair time in ole Tennessee, all de niggers dancin', 
 All de bosses in de ring a-pacin' an' a-prancin', 
 White folks drinkin' lemonade jes* lak it was col' 
 
 water, 
 Nigger drinkin' 'simmon beer, de drink be allers 
 
 orter. 
 Nights jes' full er moonlight wid de darkey's heel 
 
 a-flyin' — 
 Lord, when I die, jes' take me whar a fair is 
 
 allers gwine 1 
 
 THE RABBIT TRAP. 
 
 DOWN in de sage fiel', settin' in de sno*, 
 I looks from de winder an' I sees whut 
 is lef 
 Uv er rickety rabbit trap, whar de tall weeds bio', 
 An* little Phil made it by his own little se'f. 
 
 339 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 He cut de pine sticks, an' he bent de peach 
 bow, 
 An' he whittled out de triggers wid his Barlo' 
 blade, 
 Den he slip off by hissef jes' es sly as he cud go. 
 An' sot it by de big stump in de shugar glade. 
 
 An' he laf an* he played twell de big red moon 
 Riz frum de medder, an' dey tole 'im " cum 
 ter bed." 
 But he said : " Daddy Wash, you must wake me 
 mighty soon. 
 Fur I'm gwinter ketch Brer Rabbit, sho', — an' 
 you may have his head." 
 
 Po' little Phil ! Ole Marster's lastes' chile, 
 An' me an' Dinah nussed 'im an* we loved 'im 
 lak our own, 
 Wid sunlight allers in his heart and moonlight in 
 his smile — 
 But dey am sot foreber now and let' us here 
 ter moan. 
 
 Fur dey saunt fur me quick dat night 'bout 'leben, 
 An' de white folks was cryin' 'round er little 
 trundle-bed ; 
 "Daddy Wash," sedpo' little Phil, "I'm gwinter 
 up to Heaben, 
 But you must watch my rabbit trap whilst I'm 
 dead." 
 
 340 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Down in de grabe yard whar de cedars bio' 
 I looks frum de winder an' my tears fall ergain, 
 
 Fur I sees er little grabe dar, out in de sno*, 
 An' little Phil sleeps in de sleet an' de rain. 
 
 ^ ^ '%' 
 
 **HUNTIN' O' THE QUAIL." 
 
 DID you ever go a-huntin' on a crisp Novem- 
 ber morn, 
 When the frost had hung his laces on the locust 
 
 and the thorn, 
 When the air was like a tonic an' the sky was 
 
 like a tone. 
 An' a kind o' huntin' fever seemed a burnin' in 
 
 your bone ? 
 O, the music in the clatter as you canter to the 
 
 fiel's ! 
 O, the echo in the patter of the dogs upon your 
 
 heels ! 
 What a picture for a painter when the setters 
 
 make a stand 
 While that dreamy gleamy silence seems to settle 
 on the land ! 
 
 Are you ready, boys ? 
 '*— Ready !" 
 (Click ! click ! click !) 
 Come, steady, dogs ! 
 *'— Steady !" 
 (Click! click! click!) 
 341 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Then 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 
 
 Bar; 3ig! Bang! 
 An* ': f r-ir-ir-ir ! 
 E :_ Bang! Bang! 
 An' your heart jumps like a rabbit tho* you didn't 
 
 touch a tail — 
 Still, you'd like to live forever — just a-huntin' o' 
 the quail ! 
 
 Did you ever stop for luncheon on a bright No- 
 vember noon. 
 Where the pines were lispin' lullabies an* the 
 
 winds were all a-croon, 
 Where a ^ring was "jst a-singin* an' a-dancin' 
 
 down a hill. 
 An' you tapped the tank where Nature runs her 
 
 everlastin' still ? 
 How the beaten biscuits fade beneath the fervor 
 
 of your kiss ! 
 How the sandwiches are laid beriearh a hlighrin' 
 
 that is bliss ! 
 What an appetite for eatin' you discover you 
 
 have got — 
 O. wouldn't you be champion were you half as 
 good a shot ? 
 
 Are vou ready, boys ? 
 "—Ready!" 
 (Tap, tap, tap !) 
 Are you steady, boys ?) 
 "—Steady!" 
 (Tap, tap, tap !) 
 342 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Then 'tis guggle, guggle, guggle, guggle ! 
 
 Pop ! Pop ! Pop ! 
 An' 'tis google, google, google, google ! 
 Pop ! Pop ! Pop ! 
 'Till you toss away the bottle as you would a 
 
 twice-told tale — 
 O, ain't it just too fine a sport ! — this huntin' o' 
 the quail ? 
 
 Did you ever come from huntin' on a sweet No- 
 vember eve, 
 When the sun was sorter sorry such a dreamy day 
 
 to leave, 
 When your heart was like a feather, an' your bag 
 
 was like a lead. 
 An' the liltin' of a lark was like a vesper over- 
 head ? 
 An' you found a poem strayin' an' a-swayin' on 
 
 the gate 
 While she chides you for a-stayin' with Diana 
 
 out so late ! 
 O, of course you stop to greet 'er an' to give 
 
 'er half your birds — 
 Ev*ry poem has a meter so you meet 'er with 
 these words : 
 
 Do you love me, Susie ? 
 
 " — Love you !" 
 
 (Kiss, kiss, kiss !) 
 
 Will you wed me, Susie ? 
 
 *'— Wed you !" 
 
 (Bliss, bliss, bliss !) 
 
 343 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Then 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 
 
 (Your heart, yo/jr heart,) 
 An' 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 
 (Her heart, her heart,) 
 Just a-flutterin' like a covey with Cupid on their 
 
 trail— 
 O, it beats all kind o' huntin' when you bag 
 that kind o' quail ! 
 
 WHEN DE FAT AM ON DE POSSUM. 
 
 ODE glory ob de fall days, de bes' ob all de 
 year, 
 Wid de smoke a curlin' up'ard in de mornin' 
 
 crisp an' clear — 
 When de days cum brimmin' ober wid de soft 
 
 an' meller light, 
 An' pollertics an' 'ligyum both ergwine day an' 
 
 night ! 
 O I don' want no better times den dese my life 
 
 to fill, 
 When de fat am on de possum an' de taters in 
 
 de hill ! 
 
 O de glory ob de fall days — O de splendor ob de 
 
 morn — 
 When de hills an' valleys echo wid de hunter's 
 
 tuneful horn, 
 
 344 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 When de yaller gal braid up her ha'r an' sets out 
 
 in de sun, 
 An' de fat shoat in de beechwood snort an' whirl 
 
 eroun' an' run ! 
 You may talk erbout yer Promused Ian* — I've got 
 
 it at my wish 
 When de brown am on de possum an' de taters 
 
 in de dish ! 
 
 Sum say dis am a wicked wurl an' full ob sin an' 
 
 shame, 
 Dat frenship's but er holler soun' an' love am 
 
 but er name, 
 Dat all de men am liars yit an' all de women 
 
 false, 
 Wid death an' taxes allers heah to make us rise 
 
 and waltz. 
 Dat mebbe so — one t'ing I kno' — it nebber seems 
 
 to be 
 When de taters in de possum — an' de possum am 
 
 in me ! 
 
 LITTLE SAM. 
 
 LO, de cabin's empty, 
 De chilluns all am gohn, 
 De jimsun weed gro' 'roun' de do*, 
 
 De grass dun tuck de cohn, 
 De fiah am turned to ashes, 
 De hoe-cake's col' an' clam ; 
 345 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 I wants ter go to de Master now — 
 He tuck po* little Sam. 
 
 Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 
 
 Dat wake me in de mohnin' when de chickens 
 
 'gin ter cro', 
 De Marster's royal cherriut cum down wid steeds 
 
 ob flame, 
 He had ten million angels but he wanted mine de 
 
 same. 
 
 His coffin wus er ole pine box, 
 
 (Po' little lonesome waif !) 
 Whut matter whar de col' clay am, 
 
 Jes' so de soul am safe. 
 I gethered cotton blossums, 
 
 'Twus all de flowers I hed — 
 Lak him, gohn in de mohnin' 
 
 Befo' de dew wus shed. 
 
 Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 
 
 No more I'll heah him call me when de chickens 
 
 'gin to cro', 
 De Marster's royal cherriut cum down wid steeds 
 
 ob flame, 
 He had ten million angels but he wanted mine de 
 
 same. 
 
 Lo, my heart am empty, 
 
 My life hopes dey am fled, 
 Jes' cut dis ole dry tree down, Lord, 
 
 De moss am on its head — 
 346 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Why should de ole man sorrow heah 
 
 Sence you tuk little Sam ? 
 Jes' let me be thy servant, Lord, 
 
 In de manshun whar he am ! 
 
 Po' little Sam, dat played erroun* de do*, 
 
 Sum mohn' I'll heah him call me when de 
 
 chicken 'gin to cro'. 
 An' den de Marster's cherriut will take me es 
 
 I am. 
 Will take dis po' ole nigger home, to be wid 
 
 little Sam. 
 
 LETTIE. 
 
 LETTIE — she lives in Orchard Room, 
 An' the Square he lives near by. 
 Orchard Room is a world of bloom. 
 
 An' Lettie — she's its sky ! 
 A valley of blossoms an' rose-perfume, 
 An' Lettie's the rose — O, my ! 
 
 Her cheeks, she stole frum the peaches 
 
 Thet dimples an' pinks in the sun. 
 Her lips, frum the cherries ; her eyes — black- 
 berries ; 
 Her laugh, frum the brooks thet run. 
 Her soul ! — an angel drapt it onc't 
 'Bout the time her life begun. 
 347 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 The Square hed saunt his message, 
 
 An' hit created a stir ! 
 He was " gwine ter marry Lettie 
 
 Or else know the reason fur " — 
 Rich, an' he'd buried fo' good wives — 
 
 Now he wanted to bury her ! 
 
 I stopped Old Kate in the furrer ; 
 
 I mounted an' rode erway, 
 I b'leeves in sowin' to-morrer 
 
 When I kno' I can reap to-day, 
 An* trouble — I never will borrer — 
 
 When I orter be makin' hay ! 
 
 Down by the spring she was churnin' 
 Her calico tucked to her knees, 
 
 Her cheeks all flushed an' a burnin'. 
 Her hair flung out to the breeze. 
 
 I looked — an' I felt my heart turnin' 
 To butter — an' then ergin inter cheese ! 
 
 I rode to the fence beside her, 
 
 My heart went flippetty-flop, 
 *T was churnin' up champagne cider 
 
 An' sody an' ginger pop ! 
 Old Kate hed nuthin' ter guide her 
 
 An' she nacherly cum to er stop. 
 
 " O, Lettie," I said, " my darlin', 
 Will you marry the old, fat Square ? 
 348 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 His heart — hit's es cold as his gizzard — 
 His soul — hit's es scarce es his hair ! 
 
 O, Lettie, sweet, why would the wild fawn 
 Mate with the polar bear ?" 
 
 She ducked her head (it was takin'), 
 *' O, Lettie, my heart you'll bust ! 
 
 Will you really marry that bac'n ?" 
 
 **Yes,"— slyly— "Zeke, 'spec I must!" 
 
 **0, Lettie, my darlin', why will ye ?" 
 ** Cause — cause — you didn't ax me fust !** 
 
 I grabbed her there an' I kissed her, 
 
 Kissed her over the fence. 
 An' I got me a preacher. Mister — 
 
 An' the Square ain't seed her sence ! 
 Fur he's up at his house, in the attic, 
 
 An' they say he's a raisin' a stir 
 A-nussin' his gout an' rheumatic — 
 
 While I'm — wal, I'm a-nussin' her ! 
 
 o 
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION. 
 
 I'M sick an' tired an' lonely, 
 , An' I'd give the worl', if only 
 1 could see the ole plantation where I played so 
 long ago. 
 See the willers — swishin', swishin' — 
 In the creek — jes' right for fishin' — 
 
 349 
 
Songs and Stories 
 
 Hear the tinkle of the cow-bell in the medder jes* 
 below, 
 An' to lay there, blinkln', blinkin', 
 In the hazy sun, an' thinkin' 
 Of the batty-cakes fur supper, with the berries 
 
 an' the cream. 
 Of the batty-cakes an' berries that would vanish 
 like a dream. 
 
 O, I'm sick an' tired an' lonely, 
 An' I'd give a boss if only 
 1 could drink ergin the buttermilk I drunk so long 
 ago, 
 In the dairy, cool an' curlin' 
 With the water 'round it purlin' 
 An' the white-wash walls a-shinin' in a microbe- 
 killin' glow, 
 Jes' to drink there, sorter dreamy, 
 Eatin' hoe-cake, crisp an' creamy. 
 With the smell of fryin' batty-cakes upon the 
 
 evenin' air — 
 Fryin' batty-cakes an' bacon floatin' on the 
 evenin' air. 
 
 O, I'm sick an' tired an' lonely, 
 But I'd walk a state if only 
 1 could walk in on the ole folks that I loved so 
 long ago, 
 On the mother, knittin', knittin'. 
 An' the father smokin', sittin' 
 
 350 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Where the sun-beams loved to flicker an' the 
 moon-beams loved to flow, 
 Jes' to set there, noddin', winkin', 
 Full of batty -cakes an' thinkin' 
 'Bout time to kiss 'em good-night now, an' lay 
 
 me down to sleep — 
 Kiss 'em good-night now forever — an' then lay 
 me down to sleep. 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 OUT from the meadow, bathed in bright- 
 Bob— Bob— White ! 
 An answer, back from the cool copse-height- 
 Bob— White ! 
 The humdrum beetle drones his horn, 
 The cradling breezes lull the corn, 
 But still that truant call goes on — 
 
 Bob— Bob— White! 
 And back with keen Xantippe scorn — 
 Bob— White! 
 
 Out from the meadow's ling'ring light — 
 
 Bob— Bob— White I 
 An echo, back from the dark hill's height — 
 
 Bob— White ! 
 The drowsy night-lids droop adown. 
 With ribbon'd rays her ringlets bound — 
 
 351 
 

 Hiy— Bee— 
 
 ^ * 
 
 LOIiGOr FURTBOSSS^ 
 
 0.~T, 
 
 I , jesT er 
 
 V 
 
 ■ide 
 
 sree; 
 
 SS* 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Do de colts all cum a-pacin' lak dey useter cum 
 
 fur me ? 
 Do de fiel'-lark sing es sweetly frum de shugar- 
 
 maple tree ? 
 Will de chilluns cum to meet me, an* my wife, 
 
 dat's dead an' gone, 
 Will she sing, jes' lak she useter, in de cotton 
 
 an* de cohn ? 
 
 O, chilluns, I'm cummin', 
 Fur de ole man's almos' free, 
 
 An' I'm longin', jes' er longin' 
 Fur er sight ob Tennessee. 
 
 O, I'm longin', jes' er longin' fur er breath ob 
 
 Tennessee, 
 Fur de wind frum off de mount'in made foreber 
 
 fur de free. 
 Fur de lesson an' de blessin' in de blue sky up 
 
 erbove. 
 An' de locus'-blossoms bloomin' on de grabes ob 
 
 dem I lub. 
 Am de 'possum still house-keepin' *mong de 
 
 grapes ob Bigby Creek ! 
 An* young mistis — do she kerry still de grape- 
 bloom in her cheek ? 
 Ken you heah de sheep-bell tinkle, tinkle, on de 
 
 blue-grass hill. 
 While de water jine de chorus frum de ole 
 
 wheel at de mill ? 
 ^3 353 
 
Saag^ ^md Sinks 
 
 Ye^ msrster^ dtsEifs er feai' you: saeyr^ 
 
 Fxir fs^ €Er &r'rf o^ TomessEe ? 
 O^ Fhb langiii*, ]es' er longin' fur er tiome in Ten- 
 Fur J^ eaimx dtst oie mars&gr iTui^ ^uc t^tosft^ an' 
 
 db c&gptm amK ^^ left us lak <£& dsw-drap 
 hsstb cfer grass — 
 
 1 kao^ (fef- dssf^— but ^I E fe^ ^ TJ g» 
 
 cBsjr'd auD: @e^k aon^ ^^ ^"^ P^*F B'K^Bb^ 
 
 B^ raamniy^d cum ergin her IMe bay to 
 
 tijBt sig %m hini iat luiref&jr fiDom wfiidr he^if 
 
 SiAe (£iBt EuIIerby 6ir me — 
 F«r rut fioo^i'x jes^ er finapK' 
 
 3S« 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 WONDERFUL MEN. 
 
 (To My Mother.) 
 
 Truly a wonderful man was Calus Julius Csesar. 
 
 — Longfellow. 
 
 TRULY a wonderful man was Caius Julius 
 Caesar, 
 Strong his will as his sword and both of Damas- 
 
 can mettle, 
 Wonderful in his wars, more wonderful yet in his 
 
 writings, 
 Firm his words and quick as the tramp of a 
 
 Roman legion, 
 Grand his thoughts and high as his standard, the 
 
 Roman eagle. 
 Whether 'mid gloomy woods, facing a foe bar- 
 baric. 
 Seizing a shield and a sword to turn the Nervian 
 
 torrent. 
 Or 'mid Thessalonian plains sweeping Pompeian 
 
 forces. 
 Or guiding with wisdom's reins the greatest of all 
 
 the nations. 
 Always the wonderful man — Caius Julius Caesar. 
 
 And yet, O wonderful man, O wonderful Julius 
 Caesar, 
 
 355 
 
of \ :_ - - 3ther, 
 
 In aJ] yc - : : erful ^^Ms, yoo nude no figjbt 
 
 fw ' ~ 
 
 And know yoa^ woadeitul man, imrerizus JuiiDS 
 Caesar, 
 
 From whom your wonderfol nerve and wonder- 
 ful heart for bir e - 
 ~ 15 f f iidio flincrf: :: :t~ei." :"r : -r 
 1*: ~ ' r : : the sai]gr : ~ . 
 
 Fighnn^ i : zt^e for yoii, grander than Gaul's or 
 
 p< 
 
 :iiewor!i i.-i ~ : -iii^yoa m 
 
 soul with fire 
 : ■ ratness. 
 
 man was Cicero, the 
 
 i> . -^ 
 
 Clenching tr r : : ~ oi years tfcc hur jei ii a ilti 
 Ye: 'z-iz' r z: r 3 a Roman fif e hui^ 
 
 356 
 
from Tennessee 
 
 Now sweet as the Lesbian birds, now stern as 
 the shock of battle. 
 
 And yet, O wonderful man, O greatest of ancient 
 
 speakers. 
 In all your wonderful works no mention is made 
 
 of your mother, 
 Of all your speeches grand, not one was made 
 
 for woman ! 
 And yet 'twas she who gave you depth and 
 
 beauty and sweetness. 
 The voice to mimic the wave, the brush to paint 
 
 the lily. 
 *Twas she who sowed in your soul the seeds of 
 
 fanciful flowers, 
 Erected aloft your goal and gave you the strength 
 
 to win it. 
 
 And O, a wonderful man was Horace, the lyric 
 
 poet, 
 Studding his sky with stars and decking his earth 
 
 with meadows. 
 Singing a song to his love while she blushes 
 
 adown the ages. 
 Covering the ruins of Time with the fadeless 
 
 leaf of his laurel — 
 Concealing the broken vase with the immortal 
 
 bloom of his roses. 
 
 And yet, O wonderful man, O sweetest of 
 ancient poets, 
 
 357 
 
Songs and Stories from Tennessee 
 
 Who gave you the hue to paint the carmiel 
 
 cheek of your roses, 
 Your lute, that sounds even now, through the 
 
 mellow twilight of ages ; 
 Who gave you the pure, true eye for watching 
 
 and loving all nature. 
 And tuned your wonderful lyre till old Time 
 
 stops to listen ? 
 A wonderful creature was she, — a wonderful, 
 
 wonderful woman — 
 And yet, we ne'er had known, had we waited 
 
 your muse to tell it ! 
 
 O these were wonderful men, and wonderful, 
 
 too, their country. 
 And yet it has passed away, as a bubble when 
 
 Time blows on it ; 
 Passed, as they all have passed, where might is 
 
 greater than Mother, 
 Passed, as they all have passed, where wife is 
 
 less than mistress, 
 Passed, as they all will pass, who have no throne 
 
 for woman. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 358 
 
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