The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862

'No; but here's the overseer as plain as daylight; and his tracks not wet!'

Quickly dismounting, he examined the ground, and then exclaimed:

'The d—l! it's a fact—here not four hours ago! He has doubled on his tracks since, I'll wager, and not made twenty miles—we'll have him before night, sure! Come, mount—quick.'

We sprang into our saddles, and again pressed rapidly on after the dog, who followed the scent at the top of his speed.

Some three miles more of wet, miry road took us to the run of which the Colonel had spoken. Arrived there, we found the hound standing on the bank, wet to the skin, and looking decidedly chop-fallen.

'Death and d—n!' shouted the Colonel; 'the dog has swum the run, and lost the trail on the other side! The d—d scoundrel has taken to the water, and balked us after all! Take up the dog, Sandy, and try him again over there.'

The native spoke to Cæsar, who bounded on to the horse's back in front of his master. They then crossed the stream, which there was about fifty yards wide, and so shallow that in the deepest part the water only touched the horse's breast, but it was so roiled by the recent rain that we could not distinguish the foot-prints of the horse beneath the surface.

The dog ranged up and down on the opposite bank, but all to no purpose: the overseer had not been there. He had gone either up or down the stream—in which direction, was now the question. Calling Sandy back to our side of the run, the Colonel proceeded to hold a 'council of war.' Each one gave his opinion, which was canvassed by the others, with as much solemnity as if the fate of the Union hung on the decision.

The native proposed we should separate—one go up, another down the stream, and the third, with the dog, follow the road; to which he thought Moye had finally returned. Those who should explore the run would easily detect the horse's tracks where he had left it, and then taking a straight course to the road, we could all meet some five miles further on, at a place indicated.

I gave in my adhesion to Sandy's plan, but the Colonel overruled it on the ground of the waste of time to be incurred in thus recovering the overseer's trail.

'Why not,' he said, 'strike at once for the end of his route? Why follow the slow steps he took in order to throw us off the track? He has not come back to this road. Six miles below there is another one leading also to the railway. He has taken that. We might as well send Sandy and the dog back at once, and go on by ourselves.'

'But if bound for the Station, why should he wade through the creek here, sis miles out of his way? Why not go straight on by the road?' I asked.

'Because he knew the dog would track him, and he hoped by taking to the run to make me think he had crossed the country instead of striking for the railroad.'

I felt sure the Colonel was wrong, but knowing him to be tenacious of his own opinions, I made no further objection.

Directing Sandy to call on Madam P– and acquaint her with our progress, he then dismissed the negro-hunter, and we once more turned our horses up the road.

The next twenty miles, like our previous route, lay through an unbroken forest, but as we left the water-courses, we saw nothing but the gloomy pines, which there—the region being remote from the means of transportation—were seldom tapped, and presented few of the openings that invite the weary traveler to the dwelling of the hospitable planter.

After a time the sky, which had been bright and cloudless all the morning, grew overcast and gave out tokens of a coming storm. A black cloud gathered in the west, and random flashes darted from it far off in the distance; then gradually it neared us; low mutterings sounded in the air, and the tops of the tall pines a few miles away, were lit up now and then with a fitful blaze, all the brighter for the deeper gloom that succeeded. Then a terrific flash and peal broke directly over us, and a great tree, struck by a red-hot bolt, fell with a deafening crash, half-way across our path. Peal after peal followed, and then the rain—not filtered into drops as it falls from our colder sky, but in broad, blinding sheets, poured full and heavy on our shelterless heads.

'Ah! there it comes!' shouted the Colonel. 'God have mercy upon us!'

Suddenly a crashing, crackling, thundering roar rose above the storm, filling the air, and shaking the solid earth till it trembled beneath our horses' feet, as if upheaved by a volcano. Nearer and nearer the sound came, till it seemed that all the legions of darkness were unloosed in the forest, and were mowing down the great pines as the mower mows the grass with big scythe. Then an awful, sweeping crash thundered directly at our backs, and turning round, as if to face a foe, my horse, who had borne the roar and the blinding flash till then, unmoved, paralyzed with dread, and panting for breath, sunk to the ground; while close at my side the Colonel, standing erect in his stirrups, his head uncovered to the pouring sky, cried out:

'Thank God, we are saved!'

There—not three hundred yards in our rear, had passed the Tornado—uprooting trees, prostrating dwellings, and sending many a soul to its last account, but sparing us for another day! For thirty miles through the forest it had mowed a swath of two hundred feet, then moved on to stir the ocean to its briny depths.

With a full heart, I remounted, and turning my horse, pressed on in the rain. We said not a word till a friendly opening pointed the way to a planter's dwelling. Then calling to me to follow, the Colonel dashed up the by-path which led to the mansion, and in five minutes we were warming our chilled limbs before the cheerful fire that roared and crackled on its broad hearth-stone.

The house was a large, old-fashioned frame building, square as a packing-box, and surrounded, as all country dwellings at the South are, by a broad, open piazza. Our summons was answered by its owner, a well-to-do, substantial, middle-aged planter, wearing the ordinary homespun of the district, but evidently of a station in life much above the common 'corn-crackers' I had seen at the country meeting-house. The Colonel was an acquaintance, and greeting us with great cordiality, our host led the way directly to the sitting-room. There we found a bright, blazing fire, and a pair of bright, blazing eyes, the latter belonging to a blithesome young woman of about twenty, with a cheery face, and a half-rustic, half-cultivated air, whom our new friend introduced to us as his wife.

'I regret not having had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. S– before, but am very happy to meet her now,' said the Colonel, with all the well-bred, gentlemanly ease that distinguished him.

'The pleasure is mutual, Colonel J–,' replied the lady, 'but thirty miles in this wild country should not have made a neighbor so distant as you have been.'

'Business, madam, is at fault, as your husband knows. I have much to do; and besides, all my connections are in the other direction—with Charleston.'

'It's a fact, Sally, the Colonel is the d–st busy man in these parts. Not content with a big plantation and three hundred niggers, he looks after all South-Carolina, and the rest of creation to boot,' said our host.

'Tom will have his joke, madam, but he's not far from the truth.'

Seeing we were dripping wet, the lady offered us a change of clothing, and retiring to a chamber, we each appropriated a suit belonging to our host, giving our own to a servant to be dried.

Arrayed in the fresh apparel, we soon rejoined our friends in the sitting-room. The new garments fitted the Colonel tolerably well, but though none too long, they were a world too wide for me, and, as my wet hair hung in smooth, flat folds down my cheeks, and my limp shirt-collar fell over my linsey coat, I looked for all the world like a cross between a theatrical Aminadab Sleek and Sir John Falstaff, with the stuffing omitted. When our hostess caught sight of me in this new garb, she rubbed her hands together in great glee, and, springing to her feet, gave vent to a perfect storm of laughter—jerking out between the explosions:

'Why—you—you—look jest like—a scare-crow.'

There was no mistaking that hearty, hoidenish manner; and seizing both of her hands in mine, I shouted: 'I've found you out—you're a 'country-woman' of mine—a clear-blooded Yankee!'

'What! you a Yankee!' she exclaimed, still laughing, 'and here with this horrid 'seceshener,' as they call him.'

'True as preachin', ma'am,' I replied, adopting the drawl—'all the way from Down East, and Union, tu, stiff as buckram.'

'Du tell!' she exclaimed, swinging my hands together as she held them in hers. 'If I warn't hitched to this ere feller, I'd give ye a smack right on the spot. I'm so glad to see ye.'

'Do it, Sally—never mind me,' cried her husband, joining heartily in the merriment.

Seizing the collar of my coat with both hands, she drew my face down till my lips almost touched hers, (I was preparing to blush, and the Colonel shouted, 'Come, come, I shall tell his wife,') but then, turning quickly on her heel, she threw herself into a chair, exclaiming, 'I wouldn't mind, but the old man would be jealous;' and adding to the Colonel, 'You needn't be troubled, sir; no Yankee girl will kiss you till you change your politics.'

'Give me that inducement, and I'll change them on the spot,' said the Colonel.

'No, no, Dave, 'twouldn't do,' replied the planter, 'the conversion wouldn't be genuwine—besides, such things arn't proper, except with blood-relations—and all the Yankees, you know, are first-cousins.'

The conversation then subsided into a more placid mood, but lost none of its genial good-humor. Refreshments were soon set before us, and while partaking of them I gathered from our hostess that she was a Vermont country-girl, who, some three years before, had been induced by liberal pay, to come South as a teacher. A sister accompanied her, who, about a year after their arrival, had married a neighboring planter. Wishing to be near the sister, our hostess had also married and settled down for life in that wild region. 'I like the country very well,' she added; 'it's a great sight easier living here than in Vermont; but I do hate these lazy, shiftless, good-for-nothing niggers; they are so slow, and so careless, and so dirty, that I sometimes think they will worry the very life out of me. I du believe I'm the hardest mistress in all the district.'

I learned from her that a majority of the teachers at the South are from the North, and principally, too, from New-England. Teaching is a very laborious employment there, far more so than with us, for the Southerners have no methods like ours, and the same teacher usually has to hear lessons in branches all the way from Greek and Latin to the simple A B C. The South has no system of public instruction; no common schools; no means of placing within the reach of the sons and daughters of the poor even the elements of knowledge. While the children of the wealthy are most carefully educated, it is the policy of the ruling class to keep the great mass of the people in ignorance; and so long as this policy continues, so long will that section be as far behind the North as it now is in all that constitutes the elements of prosperity and true greatness.

The afternoon wore rapidly and pleasantly away in the genial society of our wayside friends. Politics were discussed, (our host was a Union man,) the prospects of the turpentine crop talked over, the recent news canvassed, the usual neighborly topics touched upon, and—I hesitate to confess it—a considerable quantity of corn-whisky disposed of, before the Colonel discovered, all at once, that it was six o'clock, and we were still seventeen miles from the railway station. Arraying ourselves again in our dried garments, we bade a hasty but regretful 'good-by' to our hospitable entertainers, and once more took to the road.

The storm had cleared away, but the ground was heavy with the recent rain, and our horses were sadly jaded with the ride of the morning. We therefore gave them the reins, and as they jogged on at their leisure, it was ten o'clock at night before we reached the little hamlet of W–Station, in the State of North-Carolina.

A large hotel, or station-house, and about a dozen log-shanties made up the village. Two of these structures were negro-cabins; two were small groceries, in which the vilest alcoholic compounds were sold at a bit (ten cents) a glass; one was a lawyer's office, in which was the post-office, and a justice's court, where, once a month, the small offenders of the vicinity 'settled up their accounts;' one was a tailoring and clothing establishment, where breeches were patched at a dime a stitch, and payment taken in tar and turpentine; and the rest were private dwellings of one apartment, occupied by the grocers, the tailor, the switch-tender, the post-master, and the negro attachés of the railroad. The church and the school-house—the first buildings to go up in a Northern village, I have omitted to enumerate, because—they were not there.

One of the natives told me that the lawyer was a 'stuck-up critter;' 'he don't live; he don't—he puts-up at th' hotel.' And the hotel! Would Shakspeare, had he known of it, have written of taking one's ease at his inn? It was a long, framed building, two stories in hight, with a piazza extending across its side, and a front door crowded as closely into one corner as the width of the joist would permit. Under the piazza, ranged along the wall, was a low bench, occupied by about forty tin wash-basins and water-pails, with coarse, dirty crash towels suspended on rollers above them. By the side of each of these towels hung a comb and a brush, to which a lock of every body's hair was clinging, forming in the total a stock sufficient to establish any barber in the wig business.

It was, as I have said, ten o'clock when we reached the station. Throwing the bridles of our horses over the hitching-posts at the door, we at once made our way to the bar-room. That apartment, which was in the rear of the building, and communicated with by a long, narrow passage, was filled almost to suffocation, when we entered, by a cloud of tobacco-smoke, the fumes of bad whisky, and a crowd of drunken chivalry, through whom the Colonel with great difficulty elbowed his way to the counter, where 'mine host' and two assistants were dispensing 'liquid death,' at the rate of ten cents a glass, and of ten glasses a minute.

'Hello, Colonel! how ar' ye?' cried the red-faced liquor-vender, as he caught sight of my companion, and—relinquishing his lucrative employment for a moment—took the Colonel's hand.

'Quite well, thank you, Miles,' said the Colonel, with a certain patronizing air, 'have you seen my man Moye?'

'Moye, no! What's up with him?'

'He's run away with my horse, Firefly—I thought he would have made for this station. At what time does the next train go up?'

'Wal, it's due half arter 'leven, but 'taint gin'rally 'long till nigh one.'

The Colonel was turning to join me at the door, when a well-dressed young man of very unsteady movements, who was filling a glass at the counter, and staring at him with a sort of dreamy amazement, stammered out: 'Moye—run—run a—way, zir! that—k—kant be—by G—d. I know—him, zir—he's a—a friend of mine, and—I'm—I'm d—d if he an't hon—honest.'

'About as honest as the Yankees run,' replied the Colonel: 'he's a d—d thief, sir!'

'Look here—here, zir—don't—don't you—you zay any—thing 'gainst—the Yankees. D—d if—if I an't—one of 'em mezelf—zir,' said the fellow staggering toward the Colonel.

'I don't care what, you are; you're drunk.'

'You lie—you—you d—d 'ris—'ristocrat—take that,' was the reply, and the inebriated gentleman aimed a blow, with all his unsteady might, at the Colonel's face.

The South-Carolinian stepped quickly aside, and dexterously threw his foot before the other, who—his blow not meeting the expected resistance—was unable to recover himself, and fell headlong to the floor. The Colonel turned on his heel, and was walking quietly away, when the sharp report of a pistol sounded through the apartment, and a ball tore through the top of his boot, and lodged in the wall within two feet of where I was standing. With a spring, quick and sure as the tiger's, the Colonel was on the drunken man. Wrenching away the weapon, he seized the fellow by the necktie, and drawing him up to nearly his full hight, dashed him at one throw to the other side of the room. Then raising the revolver he coolly leveled it to fire.

But a dozen strong men were on him. The pistol was out of his hand, and his arms were pinioned in an instant; while cries of 'Fair play, sir!' 'He's drunk!' 'Don't hit a man when he's down,' and other like exclamations, came from all sides.

'Give me fair play, you d—d North-Carolina hounds,' cried the Colonel, struggling violently to get away, 'and I'll fight the whole posse of you.'

'One's 'nuff for you, ye d—d fire-eatin' 'ristocrat,' said a long, lean, bushy-haired, be-whiskered individual who was standing near the counter: 'ef ye wan't ter fight, I'll 'tend to yer case to onst. Let him go, boys,' he continued as he stepped toward the Colonel, and parted the crowd that had gathered around him: 'give him the shootin'-iron, and let's see ef he'll take a man thet's sober.'

I saw serious trouble was impending, and stepping forward, I said to the last speaker: 'My friend, you have no quarrel with this gentleman. He has treated that man only as you would have done.'

'P'raps thet's so; but he's a d—d hound of a Seseshener thet's draggin' us all to h—l; it'll do th' cuntry good to git quit of one on 'em.'

'Whatever his politics are, he's a gentleman, sir, and has done you no harm—let me beg of you to let him alone.'

'Don't beg any thing for me, Mr. K–' growled the Colonel through his barred teeth, 'I'll fight the d—d corn-cracker, and his whole race, at once.'

'No you won't, my friend. For the sake of those at home you won't,' I said, as I took him by the arm, and partly led, partly forced, him toward the door.

'And who in h—l ar ye?' asked the 'corn-cracker,' planting himself squarely in my way.

'I'm on the same side of politics with you, Union to the core!' I replied.

'Ye ar! Union! Then giv us yer fist,' said he, grasping me by the hand, 'by–it does a feller good to see a man dressed in yer cloes thet haint 'fraid ter say he's Union, so close to South-Car'lina, tu, as this ar! Come, hev a drink: come, boys—all round—let's liquor!'

'Excuse me now, my dear fellow—some other time I'll be glad to join you.'

'Jest as ye say, but thar's my fist, enyhow.'

He gave me another hearty shake of the hand, and the crowd parting, I made my way with the Colonel out of the room. We were followed by Miles, the landlord, who, when we had reached the front of the entrance-way, said: 'I'm right sorry for this row, gentlemen; but th' boys will hev a time when they git together.'

'Oh! never mind,' said the Colonel, who had recovered his coolness; 'but why are all these people here?'

'Thar's a barbecue cumin' off to-morrer on the camp-ground, and the house is cram full.'

'Is that so?' said the Colonel, then turning to me he added, 'Moye has taken the railroad somewhere else; I must get to a telegraph-office at once, to head him off. The nearest one is Wilmington. With all these rowdies here, it will not do to leave the horses alone—will you stay and keep an eye on them over to-morrow?'

'Yes, I will, cheerfully.'

'Thar's a mighty hard set round har now, Cunnel,' said the landlord; 'and the most peaceable git inter scrapes ef they han't no friends. Hadn't ye better show the gentleman some of your'n, 'fore you go?'

'Yes, yes, I didn't think of that. Who is here?'

'Wal, thar's Cunnel Taylor, Bill Barnes, Sam Heddleson, Jo' Shackelford. Andy Jones, Rob Brown, and lots of others.'

'Where's Andy Jones?'

'Reckon he's turned in; I'll see.' As the landlord opened a door which led from the hall, the Colonel said to me: 'Andy is a Union man, but he'd fight to the death for me.'

'Sal!' called out the hotel-keeper.

'Yas, massa, I'se har,' was the answer from a slatternly woman, awfully black in the face, who soon thrust her head from the door.

'Is Andy Jones har?' asked Miles.

'Yas, massa, he'm turned in up thar on de table.'

We followed the landlord into the apartment. It was the dining-room of the hotel, and by the dim light which came from a smoky fire on the hearth, I saw it contained about a hundred people, who, wrapped in blankets, bed-quilts and traveling-shawls, and disposed in all conceivable attitudes, were scattered about on the hard floor and tables, sleeping soundly. The room was a long, low apartment—extending across the whole front of the house—and had a wretched, squalid look. The fire, which was tended by the negro-woman, (she had spread a blanket on the floor, and was keeping a drowsy watch over it for the night,) had been recently replenished with green wood, and was throwing out thick volumes of black smoke, which, mixing with the effluvia from the lungs of a hundred sleepers made up an atmosphere next to impossible to breathe. Not a window was open, and not an aperture for ventilation could be seen!

Carefully avoiding the arms and legs of the recumbent chivalry, we picked our way, guided by the negro-girl, to the corner of the room where the Unionist was sleeping. Shaking him briskly by the shoulder, the Colonel called out: 'Andy! Andy! wake up!'

'What—what the d–l is the matter?' stammered out the sleeper, gradually opening his eyes, and raising himself on one elbow, 'Lord bless you, Cunnel, is thet you? what in–brought you har?'

'Business, Andy. Come, get up, I want to see you, and I can't talk here.'

The North-Carolinian slowly rose, and throwing his blanket over his shoulders, followed us from the room. When we had reached the open air the Colonel introduced me to his friend, who expressed surprise, and a great deal of pleasure, at meeting a Northern Union man in the Colonel's company.

'Look after our horses, now, Miles; Andy and I want to talk,' said the planter to the landlord, with about as little ceremony as he would have shown to a negro.

I thought the white man did not exactly relish the Colonel's manner, but saying: 'All right, all right, sir,' he took himself away.

The night was raw and cold, but as all the rooms of the hotel were occupied, either by sleepers or carousers, we had no other alternative than to hold our conference in the open-air. Near the railway-track a light-wood fire was blazing, and, obeying the promptings of the frosty atmosphere, we made our way to it. Lying on the ground around it, divested of all clothing except a pair of linsey trowsers and a flannel shirt, and with their naked feet close to its blaze—roasting at one extremity, and freezing at the other—were several blacks, the switch-tenders and woodmen of the station—fast asleep. How human beings could sleep in such circumstances seemed a marvel, but further observation convinced me that the Southern negro has a natural aptitude for that exercise, and will, indeed, bear more exposure than any other living thing. Nature in giving him such powers of endurance, seems to have specially fitted him for the life of hardship and privation to which he is born.

The fire-light enabled me to scan the appearance of my new acquaintance. He was rather above the medium height, squarely and somewhat stoutly built, and had an easy and self-possessed, though rough and unpolished manner. His face, or so much of it as was visible from underneath a thick mass of reddish gray hair, denoted a firm, decided character; but there was a manly, open, honest expression about it that won your confidence in a moment. He wore a slouched hat and a suit of the ordinary 'sheep's-gray,' cut in the 'sack' fashion, and hanging loosely about him. He seemed a man who had made his own way in the world, and I subsequently learned that appearances did not belie him. The son of a 'poor white' man, with scarcely the first rudiments of book-education, he had, by sterling worth, natural ability, and great force of character, accumulated a handsome property, and acquired a leading position in his adopted district. Though on 'the wrong side of politics,' his personal popularity was so great that for several successive years he had been elected to represent his county in the State Legislature. The Colonel, though opposed to him in politics—and party feeling at the South runs so high that political opponents are seldom personal friends—had, in the early part of his career, aided him by his indorsements; and Andy had not forgotten the service. It was easy to see that while two men could not be more unlike in character and appearance than my host and the North-Carolinian, they were warm and intimate friends.

'So, Moye has been raisin h—l gin'rally, Cunnel,' said my new acquaintance after a time. 'I'm not surprised. I never did b'lieve in Yankee nigger-drivers—sumhow it's agin natur for a Northern man to go Southern principles quite so strong as Moye did.'

'Which route do you think he has taken?' asked the Colonel.

'Wal, I reckon arter he tuk to the run, he made fur the mountings. He know'd you'd head him on the traveled routes; so he's put, I think, fur the Missusippe, where he'll sell the horse and make North.'

'I'll follow him,' said the Colonel, 'to the ends of the earth. If it costs me five thousand dollars, I'll see him hung.'

'Wal,' replied Andy, laughing, 'if he's gone North, you'll need a extradition treaty to kotch him. South-Car'lina, I b'lieve, has set up fur a furrin country.'

'That's true,' said the Colonel, also laughing, 'she's 'furrin' to the Yankees, but not to the old North State.'

'D–d if she han't,' replied the North-Carolinian, 'and now she's got out on our company, I swear she must keep out. We'd as soon think of goin' to h—l in summer time, as of joining partnership with her. Cunnel, you're the only decent man in the State—d–d if you han't—and your politics are a'most bad 'nuff to spile a township. It allers seemed sort o' queer to me, thet a man with such a mighty good heart as your'n could be so short in the way of brains.'

'Well, you're complimentary,' replied the Colonel, with the utmost good nature, 'but let's drop politics; we never could agree, you know. What shall I do about Moye?'

'Go to Wilmington, and telegraph all creation: wait a day to har, then if you don't har, go home, hire a native overseer, and let Moye go to the d–l. Ef it'll du you any good, I'll go to Wilmington with you, though I did mean to give you secesheners a little h—l here to-morrer.'

'No, Andy, I'll go alone. 'Twouldn't be patriotic to take you away from the barbecue. You'd 'spile' if you couldn't let off some gas soon.'

'I du b'lieve I shud. Howsumdever, thar's nary a thing I wouldn't do for you—you knows thet?'

'Yes, I do, and I wish you'd keep an eye on my Yankee friend here, and see he don't get into trouble with any of the boys—there'll be a hard set 'round, I reckon.'

'Wal, I will,' said Andy, 'but all he's to du is—keep mouth shet.'

'That seems easy enough,' I replied, laughing.

A desultory conversation followed for about an hour, when the steam-whistle sounded, and the up-train arrived. The Colonel got on board, and bidding us 'good-night,' went on to Wilmington. Andy then proposed we should look up sleeping accommodations. It was useless to seek quarters at the hotel, but an empty car was on the turn-out, and bribing one of the negroes, we got access to it, and were soon stretched at full length on two of its hard-bottomed seats.

The camp-ground was about a mile from the station, and pleasantly situated in a grove, near a stream of water. It was in frequent use by the camp-meetings of the Methodist denomination, which sect, at the South, is partial to these rural religious gatherings. Scattered over it, with an effort at regularity, were about forty small but neat log cottages, thatched with the long leaves of the turpentine-pine, and chinked with branches of the same tree. Each of these houses was floored with leaves or straw, and large enough to afford sleeping accommodations for about ten person, provided they spread their bedding on the ground, and lay tolerably close together. Interspersed among the cabins were about a dozen canvas tents, which evidently had been erected for this especial occasion.

Nearly in the centre of the group of huts, a rude sort of scaffold, four or five feet high, and surrounded by a rustic railing, served for the speaker's stand. It would seat about a dozen persons, and was protected by a roof of pine-boughs, interlaced together so as to keep off the sun, without affording protection from the rain. In the rear of this stand were two long tables, made of rough boards, and supported on stout joists, crossed on each other in the form of the letter X. A canopy of green boughs shaded the grounds, and the whole grove, which was perfectly free from underbrush, was carpeted with the soft, brown leaves of the pine.

Being fatigued with the ride of the previous day, I did not awake till the morning was well advanced, and it was nearly ten o'clock when Andy and I took our way to the camp-ground. Avoiding the usual route, we walked on through the forest. It was mid-winter, and vegetation lay dead all around us, awaiting the time when spring should breathe into it the breath of life and make it a living thing. There was silence and rest in the deep wood. The birds were away on their winter wanderings; the leaves hung motionless on the tall trees, and nature seemed resting from her ceaseless labor, and listening to the soft music of the little stream which sung a cheerful song as it rambled on over the roots and fallen branches that blocked its way. But soon a distant murmur arose, and we had not proceeded far before as many sounds as were heard at Babel made a strange concert about our ears. The lowing of the ox, the neighing of the horse, and the deep braying of another animal, mingled with a thousand human voices, came through the woods. But above and over all rose the stentorian tones of the stump speaker,