WHILE at the Tishomingo in Corinth we acquired a boy 17 years old, black and raw-boned. His name was Dan Weaver. I do not know how we got him, but having once gotten him we had him. Having learned that where we were he was always sure of something to eat, he was determined to stay with us. We took him to Jackson and he became a part of us. He made himself useful about the hotel, and assisted my mother in taking care of the baby. He would sit with her in his arms and sing by the hour, and sometimes in his earnestness the big tears would flow down his black, shiny cheeks. His favorite song was “Dixie” and over and over and again he would sing,

But the “secesh” part of it was a huge joke with Dan, and was but a bit of ironical humor on his part. There was nothing Dan wouldn’t do for “Little Missy,” as he always called me. I had developed a mania for collecting empty cigar boxes, and he would scour the town and camp to secure them for me. I was very proud of my collection, and I had them of every size and shape, stacked up on either side of the bureau until they reached the top of the looking-glass. I fully expected to bring them home with me, and was bitterly disappointed when emphatically informed that I could not do so. Since then an empty cigar box has always had a peculiar charm for me, and I never see one or inhale the pungent odor of cedar and tobacco combined but the interior of No. 19 appears before me, and I wonder who fell heir to my beloved boxes.

Dan was a good boy in the main, but in an evil hour he learned to play cards. He came home one day very angry with a colored comrade, who had not played fair with him, as he thought. He took “Little Rosebud” up and began to sing to her as usual, when suddenly the song ceased, his anger was too much for him, and he almost hissed forth the words, “I’ll eat him up blood raw widout a bit o’ salt.”

Poor, ignorant, black Dan’s roaming about town and card-playing were suddenly cut short. He was attacked with inflammatory rheumatism, and lay helpless and suffering on a cot in our room many days and nights, my dear, patient mother caring for him as best she could, until so worn out that she was compelled to have him removed to the negro quarters. His groans were piteous to hear, and sleep was almost unknown while he remained in our room.