Elizabeth W. Allston Pringle

Cherokee, March 30, 1903.

You have asked me to tell of my rice-planting experience, and I will do my best, though I hardly know where to begin.

Some years ago the plantation where I had spent my very short married life, Casa Bianca, was for sale, and against the judgment of the men of my family I decided to put $10,000, every cent I had, in the purchase of it, to grow old in, I said, feeling it a refuge from the loneliness which crushed me. Though opposed to the step, one of my brothers undertook very kindly to manage it until paid for, then to turn it over to me. I had paid $5000 cash and spent $5000 in buying mules, supplies, ploughs, harrows, seed rice, etc., necessary to start and run the place. This left me with a debt of $5000, for which I gave a mortgage. After some years the debt was reduced to $3000, when I awoke to the fact that I had no right to burden and worry my brother any longer with this troublesome addition to his own large planting,[1] and I told him the first of January of 18—that I had determined to relieve him and try it myself. He seemed much shocked and surprised and said it was impossible; how was it possible for me, with absolutely no knowledge of planting or experience, to do anything? It would be much wiser to rent. I said I would gladly do so, but who would rent it? He said he would give me $300 a year for it, just to assist me in this trouble, and I answered that that would just pay the taxes and the interest on the debt, and I would never have any prospect of paying off the mortgage, and, when I died, instead of leaving something to my nieces and nephews, I would leave only a debt. No; I had thought of it well; I would sell the five mules and put that money in bank, and as far as that went I would plant on wages, and the rest of the land I would rent to the negroes at ten bushels to the acre. He was perfectly dismayed; said I would have to advance heavily to them, and nothing but ruin awaited me in such an undertaking.

However, I assembled the hands and told them that all who could not support themselves for a year would have to leave the place. With one accord they declared they could do it; but I explained to them that I was going to take charge myself, that I was a woman, with no resources of money behind me, and, having only the land, I intended to rent to them for ten bushels of rice to the acre. I could advance nothing but the seed. I could give them a chance to work for themselves and prove themselves worthy to be free men. I intended to have no overseer; each man would be entirely responsible for the land he rented. "You know very well," I said, "that this land will bring my ten bushels rent if you just throw the seed in and leave it, so that every stroke of work that you do will go into your own pockets, and I hope you will prove men enough to work for that purpose."

Then I picked out the lazy, shiftless hands and told them they must leave, as I knew they would not work for themselves. All the planters around were eager for hands and worked entirely on wages, and I would only plant fifty acres on wages, which would not be enough to supply all with work. My old foreman, Washington, was most uneasy and miserable, and questioned me constantly as to the wisdom of what I was doing. At last I said to him: "Washington, you do not know whether I have the sense to succeed in this thing, Mass' Tom does not know, I don't know; but we shall know by this time next year, and in the meantime you must just trust me and do the best you can for me."

It proved a great success! I went through the burning suns all that summer, twice a week, five miles in a buggy and six in a boat! I, who had always been timorous, drove myself the five miles entirely alone, hired a strange negro and his boat and was rowed by him to Casa Bianca plantation. Then, with dear old Washington behind me, telling of all the trials and tribulations he had had in getting the work done, I walked around the 200 acres of rice in all stages of beauty and awfulness of smell.

But I was more than repaid. I paid off the debt on the place and lifted the mortgage. I had never hoped for that in one year. My renters also were jubilant; they made handsomely and bought horses and buggies and oxen for the coming year's work. When I had paid off everything, I had not a cent left in the bank to run on, however. Washington was amazed and very happy at the results, but when I said something to him about preparing the wages field for the coming crop, he said very solemnly: "Miss, ef yo' weak, en you wrastle wid a strong man, en de Lo'd gie you strenf fo' trow um down once, don't you try um 'gain." I laughed, but, remembering that I would have to borrow money to plant the field this year, I determined to take the old man's advice and not attempt it. This was most fortunate, for there was a terrible storm that autumn and I would have been ruined. My renters were most fortunate in getting their rice in before the storm, so that they did well again.

"Cherokee"—my father's place.

From that time I have continued to plant from 20 to 30 acres on wages and to rent from 100 to 150 acres. Of course I have had my ups and downs and many anxious moments. Sometimes I have been so unfortunate as to take as renters those who were unfit to stand alone, and then I have suffered serious loss; but, on the whole, I have been able to keep my head above water, and now and then have a little money to invest. In short, I have done better than most of my neighbors.

Five years ago the head of our family passed away, and the Cherokee plantation, which my father had inherited from his grandfather, had to be sold for a division of the estate. None of my family was able to buy it, and a syndicate seemed the only likely purchaser, and they wanted to get it for very little. So I determined the best thing I could do was to buy it in myself and devote the rest of my life to keeping it in the family, and perhaps at my death some of the younger generation would be able to take it. This would condemn me to a very isolated existence, with much hard work and anxiety; but, after all, work is the greatest blessing, as I have found. I have lived at Cherokee alone ever since, two miles from any white person! With my horses, my dogs, my books, and piano, my life has been a very full one. There are always sick people to be tended and old people to be helped, and I have excellent servants.

My renters here, nearly all own their farms and live on them, coming to their work every day in their ox-wagons or their buggies; for the first thing a negro does when he makes a good crop is to buy a pair of oxen, which he can do for $30, and the next good crop he buys a horse and buggy.

The purchase of Cherokee does more credit to my heart than head, and it is very doubtful if I shall ever pay off the mortgage. I have lost two entire crops by freshet, and the land is now under water for the third time this winter, and, though I have rented 125 acres, it is very uncertain if I can get the half of that in. March is the month when all the rice-field ploughing should be done. The earliest rice is planted generally at the end of March, then through April, and one week in May. Last season I only got in fifty acres of rent rice and ten of wages; for in the same way the freshet was over the rice land all winter, and when it went off, there was only time to prepare that much. The renters made very fine crops—30, 40, and 45 bushels to the acre, while the wages fields only made 17! This is a complete reversal of the ordinary results, for I have very rarely, in all these years, made less than 30 bushels to the acre on my fields, and I was greatly discouraged and anxious to understand the reason of this sudden failure in the wages rice at both plantations.

By the merest chance I found out the cause. Early in December I was planting oats in a six-acre field. We broadcast winter oats in this section and then plough it in on fields which have been planted in peas before. I was anxious to get the field finished before a freeze, and had six of the best ploughmen in it. Grip had prevented my going out until they had nearly finished, but Bonaparte had assured me it was being well done. When I went into the field, it looked strange to me—the rich brown earth did not lie in billowy ridges as a ploughed field generally does. Here and there a weed skeleton stood erect. I tried to pull up one or two of these and found they were firmly rooted in the soil and had never been turned. I walked over that field with my alpenstock for hours, and found that systematically the ploughmen had left from eight to ten inches of hard land between each furrow, covering it skilfully with fresh earth, so that each hand who had been paid for an acre's ploughing had in reality ploughed only one-third of an acre. And then I understood the failure of all the wage rice!

I called Bonaparte, my head man, whom I trust fully. His grandfather belonged to my grandfather, and his family hold themselves as the colored aristocracy of this country. He has been a first-class carpenter, but he is rheumatic and does not work with ease at his trade now, and prefers taking charge of my planting as head man, or agent, as they now prefer to call it. He is trustworthy and has charge of the keys to my barns where rice, corn, oats, and potatoes are kept. I have trusted him entirely, and it would be a dreadful blow to think that he was losing his integrity. Though the pressure from the idle, shambling, trifling element of his race is very great, he has been able to resist it in the past.

Bonaparte.

I showed Bonaparte what I had discovered, and he seemed terribly shocked. Whether this was real or not I cannot say, but it seemed very real, and as he has never ploughed, perhaps he really did not understand. When I said:

"And this is why the wage rice turned out so badly! You received ploughing like this and I paid for it," he seemed convicted and humbled. He had told me how beautifully the rice got up, but as soon as the hot suns of July struck it, the leaves just wilted. Of course, the roots could not penetrate the packed, unbroken clay soil. The best rice-field soil is a blue clay which the sun bakes like a brick. For a while the roots lived in the fresh earth on top.

The seed rice I had paid $1.35 a bushel for and planted two and one-half bushels to each acre; the cost of cultivating and harvesting it is $15 the acre, so that makes $18.37 which it cost to produce seventeen bushels of rice, which sold at 80 cents a bushel, $13.60.

What is to be the result of this new departure in the way of dishonesty I do not know. It has taken me a long time to lose patience. A few years ago one could get the value of the money paid for work. Just after the war there was a splendid body of workers on this plantation, and every one in the neighborhood was eager to get some of the hands from here. My father gave prizes for the best workers in the different processes, and they felt a great pride in being the prize ploughman or ditcher or hoe hand of the year; but now, alas, poor things, they have been so confused and muddled by the mistaken ideas and standards held out to them that they have no pride in honest work, no pride in anything but to wear fine clothes and get ahead of the man who employs them to do a job.

It is very hard for me to say this; I have labored so among them to try to elevate their ideals, to make them bring up their children to be honest and diligent, to make them still feel that honest, good work is something to be proud of. Even last year I would not have said this, but, alas, I have to say it now.

I have just come in from the corn-field, where two women have been paid for cutting down the corn-stalks, so that there will be nothing to interfere with the plough. They have only broken off the tops of the stalks, leaving about eighteen inches of stout corn-stalks all through the field. I shall have to send some one else to do the work and pay once more.

Yesterday I drove eight miles to my lower place, Casa Bianca, where the foreman asked me to go round the banks with him and see the inroads of the last full-moon tides, and it was appalling, the forces of nature are so immense. It makes me quail to think of the necessity of setting my small human powers in opposition. The rice-field banks are about three feet above the level of the river at high water, and each field has a very small flood-gate (called a trunk), which opens and closes to let the water in and out; but when a gale or freshet comes, all the trunk doors have to be raised so as not to strain the banks, and the water in the fields rises to the level of the river outside.

I must stop writing now or I will get too blue. I must go out and bathe in the generous sunshine and feast my eyes on the glory of yellow jessamine that crowns every bush and tree and revel in the delicious perfume as my bicycle glides over the soft, brown pine-needles along the level paths where the great dark blue eyes of the wild violets look lovingly up at me.

Yes, yes, God is very good and His world is very beautiful, and we must trust Him. When these brown children of His were wild, they were, no doubt, in a physical way perfect, but when they were brought to a knowledge of good and evil and brought under the law, like our first parents, the Prince of Darkness stepped in and the struggle within them of the forces of heaven and hell has been going on there ever since.

Each field has a small flood-gate called a "trunk."

Can we doubt which will conquer in the end? No! Evil can never have the final victory, but the struggle will be long, for the Prince of Darkness uses such subtle emissaries. They come in the guise of angels, as elevators and instructors, taking from them the simple first principles of right and wrong which they had grasped, and substituting the glamour of ambition, the desire to fly, to soar, for the God-given injunction, "What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with thy God?" Thank God, there is one man of their own race striving to hold up true standards of the Cross instead of the golden calf of the politician.

I fear this is a dull letter, but I have tried to make you understand something of the situation.

Patience Pennington.

Cherokee, June 1, 1903.

Since last I wrote I have been the sport of winds and waves. This place is still under water from a freshet, and on Sunday, April 5, there was a severe gale, and the water swept over the whole 200 acres of Casa Bianca, flowing up the rice-fields in an hour. Saturday evening the hands, after ploughing, left their ploughs in the field to continue work Monday, and they could not see the handles of the ploughs Sunday morning. I went down Tuesday, to find bridges carried away and even the banks still under water, and the head man reported five breaks in the Black River bank. It was impossible to do anything until the tide receded, and as there was a strong east wind blowing and a freshet coming down the Pee Dee, things looked very black.

Marcus began work on the breaks.

"The girls shuffled the rice about with their feet until it was clayed."

I could not help lamenting aloud, and Marcus felt obliged to offer me some comfort, so he said: "Miss, if we one been a suffer, I'd feel bad, but eberybody bank bruk, en eberybody fiel' flow." This did not comfort me at all, but I realized the folly of lamenting. Fortunately I had just bought 3000 feet of boards, and as soon as the water left the fields Marcus began work on the breaks, and by driving puncheons, laying ground logs, and flatting mud and filling in, the bank is up again, keeping out the river, and the fields are drying off. The season, however, has not waited on us. April is gone, and not an acre is planted when I expected to have 100 acres growing by this time. The worst is that I have been paying out heavily every week to put things back where they were at the end of March.

There are many curious things about the planting of rice. One can plant from the 15th of March to the 15th of April, then again from the 1st to the 10th of May, and last for ten days in June. Rice planted between these seasons falls a prey to birds,—May-birds in the spring and rice-birds in August and September. It was impossible to plant in April this year, and now every one is pushing desperately to get what they can in May.

Yesterday I went down to give out the seed rice to be clayed for planting to-day. I keep the key to the seed-rice loft, though Marcus has all the others. I took one hand up into the upper barn while Marcus stayed below, having two barrels half filled with clay and then filled with water and well stirred until it is about the consistency of molasses. In the loft my man measured out thirty-five bushels of rice, turning the tub into a spout leading to the barn below, where young men brought the clay water in piggins from the barrel and poured it over the rice, while young girls, with bare feet and skirts well tied up, danced and shuffled the rice about with their feet until the whole mass was thoroughly clayed, singing, joking, and displaying their graceful activity to the best advantage. It is a pretty sight. When it is completely covered with clay, the rice is shovelled into a pyramid and left to soak until the next morning, when it is measured out into sacks, one and one-fourth bushels to each half acre. Two pairs of the stoutest oxen on the plantation are harnessed to the rice-drills, and they lumber along slowly but surely, and by twelve o'clock the field of fourteen acres is nearly planted.

It is literally casting one's bread on the waters, for as soon as the seed is in the ground the trunk door is lifted and the water creeps slowly up and up until it is about three inches deep on the land. That is why the claying is necessary; it makes the grain adhere to the earth, otherwise it would float. Sometimes, generally from prolonged west winds, the river is low, and water enough to cover the rice cannot be brought in on one tide, and then the blackbirds just settle on the field, diminishing the yield by half.

I went down into the Marsh field, where five ploughs are running, preparing for the June planting. It is a 26-acre field, very level and pretty, and I am delighted with the work; it is beautiful. When I told one of the hands how pleased I was with the work, he said: "Miss, de lan' plough so sweet, we haf for do' um good." I went all through with much pleasure, though I sank into the moist, dark brown soil too deep for comfort, and found it very fatiguing to jump the quarter drains, small ditches at a distance of 200 feet apart, and, worse, to walk the very narrow plank over the 10-foot ditch which runs all around the field and is very deep.

The evening is beautiful; the sun, just sinking in a hazy, mellow light, is a fiery dark red, the air is fresh from the sea, only three miles to the east, the rice-field banks are gay with flowers, white and blue violets, blackberry blossoms, wistaria, and the lovely blue jessamine, which is as sweet as an orange blossom. Near the bridge two negro women are fishing, with great strings of fish beside them. The streams are full of Virginia perch, bream, and trout; you have only to drop your line in with a wriggling worm at the end, and keep silent, and you have fine sport. Then the men set their canes securely in the bank just before dark and leave then, and almost invariably find a fish ready for breakfast in the morning. There is a saying that one cannot starve in this country, and it is true.

Near the bridge two negro women are fishing.

As I drove down I saw little children with buckets and piggins picking blackberries; such big, sweet berries, covering acres of old fields which once were planted in corn. As I walked down the bank I found a "cooter" (terrapin) which had come out of the river to lay eggs. My excellent Chloe will make a delicious soup from it, or, still better, bake it in the shell. All winter we have quantities of English ducks in the rice-fields and partridges and snipe on the upland, and in the woods wild turkeys and deer, so that if there is a sportsman in the family, one can live royally with no expense.

Sheep live and thrive without any outlay. In 1890 I exchanged a very fine two-year-old grade Devon, for twenty sheep. Since then I have bought seven more. A gale, with sudden rise of water, destroyed twenty-two at one time in 1896, and I lost ten by dogs, but notwithstanding these losses, in the last seven years they have brought me in $200 by sale of mutton; my house is furnished with rugs and blankets, and I am dressed in serge made from their wool, and I have to-day at this place forty-six sheep and thirty-five splendid lambs. If I only could get the latter to a good market, it would pay handsomely, for their keep has cost nothing. I have a Page wire fence around my place.

In the same way cattle live and thrive with no grain, only straw during the winter, and the negroes do not give theirs even straw; they simply turn them into the woods, and in the spring look them up; find the cows with fine young calves and ready to be milked. They shut the calf up in a pen and turn the mother out, and she ranges the rich, grassy meadows during the day, but always returns to her calf at night. When she is milked, half of the milk is left for the calf. In this way the negroes raise a great many cattle, the head of every family owning a pair of oxen and one or two cows.

However, we cannot turn our cattle into the woods as we used to do, for unless we go to the expense of hiring a man to follow them, they will disappear, and no trace of them can be found. One negro will not testify in court against another, so that it is scarcely worth while to attempt to prosecute, for there is no chance of conviction. You hear that such a man has been seen driving off your animal; one or two people say they have seen him; you bring it into court, and witness after witness swears entire ignorance of the matter.

I, for instance, have 500 acres of pine land, and the family estate and my brothers' together make 3000 acres of the finest pasture land. Where my father had herds of splendid cattle I have to keep my cows in a very poor pasture of twenty acres, fenced in, and in consequence have only five or six cows and one pair of oxen on the same plantation where my father used to stable sixty pair of oxen during the winter. They worked the rice land in the spring and roamed the woods and grew fat in summer.

On the road this morning I met Wishy, who made many civil inquiries about my health. Five years ago one morning I was waked earlier than usual by a request from Wishy's mother, Annette, for something to stop bleeding. He had been badly cut by a negro, who struck him on the head with a lightwood bar. Wishy had laughed at his special flame, who had gone to church the Sunday before with a long white veil on her hat and he was enraged. I sent witch-hazel and the simple remedies which I always keep for such calls. About eleven o'clock another request came, this time to lend my wagon and horses to carry Wishy to town fourteen miles away, as his head was still bleeding. I was shocked to hear that he was still losing blood and told them the drive might be fatal under the circumstances; I would go out and see what could be done.

Hastily getting together all the remedies I could think of, my niece and I drove to Annette's house, which was crowded with eager friends gazing at the unhappy Wishy, who sat in the middle of the room, leaning forward over a tub, a man on each side supporting him, while the blood literally spouted from his head,—not a steady flow but in jets. It was an awful sight. I had a bed made on the floor near the door and had him lifted to it, well propped up with pillows, so that he was in a sitting posture. At that time we had no doctor nearer than the town, except a man who had come from a neighboring state under a cloud of mystery. As soon as I heard of Wishy's condition I had sent for him, but the boy returned, saying he was not able to read my note, so there was nothing but to do what I could or to let Wishy die.

I got Frank, who was very intelligent, to help me. I dipped absorbent cotton in brandy and then into powdered alum, and put it into the hole in the top of Wishy's head; it seemed a gulf! I put in more and more, having Frank hold his hands closely around the top of the head; but still the blood flowed. Then I sprinkled the powdered alum over all thickly until there was only one little round hole just in the middle; I made a little ball of cotton and alum and pressed it down into the hole with my finger and it was done. I gave him the milk I had carried, had the house cleared of people, and left, ordering that when the doctor came, I should be sent for.

A day passed, and when I sent milk, the message came back that the doctor had been there, looked at him, and gone away. I began to feel very unhappy over the heterogeneous contents of Wishy's head, but if I had not stopped the flow in some way, he would have been dead certainly—his pulse was just a flutter. I tried not to worry over it. The third day a runner came to say: "De docta' cum." With all speed I had Prue put in the buckboard and drove out. I had never seen the doctor and was surprised to find a fine-looking man in possession of the cabin. He called for a razor, said he could do nothing until he shaved Wishy's head. There was confusion among the numerous darkies who crowded round the house. At last it was agreed that Uncle Jack had the only razor in the street (as they call the negro quarters) that could cut. While a woman went for the razor, the doctor told Annette he must have hot water, and she proceeded to put a tomato can full of water on the fire; but he peremptorily ordered a large pot carefully washed, filled with water, and put on the fire. When the razor came, it was too dull to be of any use until the doctor had sharpened it, and then he shaved all of the woolly head.

I watched the man's proceedings with a growing feeling of shame. I had gone there to keep my eye on him, to prevent any roughness or carelessness to the patient, and he could not have been gentler or more interested and careful if he had been treating the Prince of Wales himself. It was a long business; with an endless stream of hot water from a fountain-syringe he removed from the hollow depths of Wishy's skull all the wonderful packing with which I had filled it, and I went away satisfied.

Day after day for three weeks he came and dressed the wound, until Wishy's head was restored to its normal state. Then he sent a bill for $20, which Wishy begged me to pay, and he would gradually return the money to me as he worked. Of course, I paid it, and, sad to say, not one dollar has ever been returned to me. Wishy married the next winter, and moved to a neighboring plantation. He has never even sent me a string of herring, though he has had a net for two years and caught great quantities which he sold readily at a cent apiece.

During the run of herring in the spring they crowd up the little streams in the most extraordinary way, just piling on top of each other in their haste to reach the very source of the stream, apparently. I suppose one little leader must wave its little tail and cry "excelsior" to the others. At a small bridge over a shallow creek near here a barrelful has been taken with a dip-net in an afternoon. But it takes a meditative, not to say an idle person, to watch for the special day and hour when the herring are seized by the impulse to ascend that particular stream.

I must stop now, not having said anything I meant to say, having been led away by the thought of my lost $20 and how very useful it would be to me now, and I will have to leave other things for another day.

Patience Pennington.

P.S. In future I will not write you a letter, but keep a diary and send you a few sheets from time to time. P.P.

Peaceville, September 1.

Had a trying day at the plantation, making an effort to get hay properly stacked, and was detained late. I had told Jonadab to wash the buckboard and grease the wheels, which he had done very thoroughly, for I could hear the grease crackling, and Ruth was travelling very fast when the world seemed to come to an end.

I did not know what had happened, but flew to Ruth's head and quieted her, though she had dragged the buckboard some distance before I could stop her. I do not know what became of Dab at first, for I didn't see him until I had stopped Ruth, when he came up, stuttering fearfully, and said:—

"The wheel is lef' behind."

The front wheel had rolled off. I told him to go and bring it and put it on, though I did not see how he was to do it alone and I could not possibly help, as it was all I could do to hold Ruth. Jonadab, however, has a way of surprising me by unexpected capacity, just as a variety from my constant surprise over his awkwardness.

On this occasion he held the wheel in one hand while he lifted the axle with the other and got the wheel on. Then I sent him to look for the nut, but I felt it was a forlorn chance, for it was now quite dark. I was in despair; we were three and a half miles from Peaceville, and if I walked, I would have to leave all my impedimenta and only take my basket of keys and other small things, such as my diary.

Most of the planters go home at sunset, and I feared they had all passed, and I could not see my way to any solution. Just as I had come to the conclusion that even my resourceful mind could find no way out of the darkness, two buggies drove up and the gentlemen asked what they could do for me. I explained the situation, and one of them said:—

"If you will drive with me, Miss Pennington, Mr. B. will take your things; the boy can ride the horse, and we will leave the buckboard here until to-morrow."

I accepted the hospitality of his buggy with many thanks. The transfer of freight was made. Dab took Ruth out, and I rolled the vehicle into the woods, as I could not bear that my buckboard should be left on the roadside, a spectacle of a breakdown. Just as it was all accomplished Dab stammered out:—

"I find de nut."

Great surprise, for this was fully 100 yards in front of the spot where the wheel had run off, but he said he felt it under his foot and picked it up and showed it in his hand. Mr. H. said:—

"That boy could never have put the nut on at all after greasing it!"

Dab was vociferous as to his having put it on and screwed it tight. I was beyond conjecture, and too thankful to question. Very rapidly the transfer was made back to my vehicle, Mr. H. remarking, "Your buckboard takes easily more than our two buggies."

I thanked them heartily for their chivalrous aid, and we all drove on home.

After the agitation had somewhat subsided, I asked Dab, who was sitting behind, if he had really put the tap on or not. He answered with great certainty:—

"Yes, ma'am; yes, ma'am; I did put it on; I know I did, en screwed it tight—"

I did not contradict him, but said, "Think about it; go back in your mind and remember just what you did, and where you put the nut when you took off this wheel, which you say you greased last."

After two miles in silence I heard convulsed sounds from the back, and finally out came "No-o-o, Miss Pashuns; no ma'am, I never put that nut on; I put it on the front o' the buckboard, an' when I put the wheel on, I went for a drink of water, and never did put the nut back—no, ma'am, I never put it back. I left it setting on the front of the buckboard."

When Dab finally gets started after stuttering and spluttering, he cannot bear to stop talking, but keeps repeating his statement over and over with delight at the glib way in which the words come out, and I have to say mildly, "That will do, Dab," and even then I hear him saying them over to himself.

After stopping his flow of speech I told him it was a great relief to know exactly what had happened, and I hoped it would be a lesson to him all his life and make him feel that he was a responsible being; that I trusted him with important work, and how if it had not been for God's great goodness, I might be lying on the road with a broken neck and he with both legs broken. I did all I could to make him feel what a mercy it had been, and he seemed deeply impressed. Ruth behaved beautifully during the whole thing, so I gave her a saucer of sugar when we got home.

Saturday, September 9.

Have been ill ever since the happy incident the other night, but this afternoon I felt impelled to go into the plantation. I had planned to send Chloe in with the money for Bonaparte to pay off, but at the last minute got up and went myself.

As soon as he saw me Green said: "Glad you cum, ma'am. Nana's got de colic turrible en we dunno w'at to do fur her."

I forgot that I was myself decrepit and flew to the house and got a bottle of colic cure and a box of axle-grease. I always keep aconite, but had none, but fortunately had not returned this bottle of horse medicine which I had borrowed when Ruth was sick. It said a teaspoonful every half hour, but I knew my time was short and Nana was desperately ill, so I gave a teaspoonful every ten minutes.

She would just throw her great body down with such force that it seemed she must break every bone in it, roll over and over, and pick herself up and flop down again before you could attempt to head her off. While she was down, I made Green and Dab rub her heavily with axle-grease.

I myself put the medicine in her mouth, holding her head up and her lips tight together until she had swallowed it. She has such confidence in me that she did not resist at all, but kept quite still while I did it. I gave her six doses, and then it was dark, and I suddenly became aware that I was very tired and could do no more. I told Nana good-by, for I never expect to see her again.

My poor dear little Irish terrier, who is my shadow and constant companion, is very ill. For three days he has neither eaten nor drunk. His throat seems paralyzed, and he looks at me with such superhuman eyes that it makes me miserable, for I can do nothing for him.

I take a bowl of water to him and he buries his little nose in it, but cannot swallow or even snuff it up. I can get nothing down his throat, so that it is impossible to treat him.

Sunday.

Poor little Snap was so ill and made such a constant appeal to me for help which I could not give, that I felt it was cruel to let him suffer longer, so I sent to Miss Penelope for a bottle of chloroform. He followed me from room to room, a feeble skeleton, all eyes, and still I tried to give him milk, and when he turned his head from that, I gave him water into which he would feebly dip his little black-tipped mouth.

At last I took him in my arms and put him on a soft cushion in a tall banana box; then I cut several pieces of very savory roast beef and put them all around his little muzzle. He could not eat them, but he could smell them, and I could see by his eye that it was a comfort to him to have them there.

Then I filled a sponge with chloroform and put it into a cone which I had made of pasteboard and put it over his head and covered up the whole thing with a heavy rug. After two hours I sent Dab to look in, and he came back radiant to say that Snap was quite well.

I went to look, and the dear little doggie roused himself from a delightful nap to look at me. All expression of suffering and appeal was gone from his eyes. He looked supremely happy and comfortable, and after glancing up at me he tucked his head down on the roast beef and went to sleep again.

I wet the sponge and once more left him. When I took him out the next morning, I could not believe he was dead, so perfectly happy and natural did he look. Dab dug his grave in my little garden, and I laid him to rest, feeling the loneliest mortal on earth when I got through.

September.

When I went in to Cherokee yesterday, I was amazed to find Nana quite recovered. I had told Bonaparte if she showed any disposition to eat, to give her rough rice instead of either oats or corn, and it seems to have been a happy thought, for it has agreed with her, and though weak still and much skinned and bruised by the way she threw herself about, she seemed quite well.

This is the eighty-eighth birthday of the sainted friend whom I visit every day. Every one in the little village sent her some little offering, so that her room was full of flowers and dainty trifles, and she enjoyed them so much. Though unable to eat anything and nearly blind, her interest in everything and everybody is vivid.

This afternoon, as Dab was putting the demijohn of milk in the box preparatory to leaving Cherokee, and I was standing in front of him screwing the top on the jar of cream to put in the same box, suddenly he dropped the demijohn and leaped in the air, uttering the most terrific Comanche yells I ever heard. I nearly dropped the jar of cream at the sound; he fled away still yelling.

My mind is fertile in horrors, and I said to myself, "The boy has gone mad!" I was terror struck.

When he finally stopped, some distance away, I called out, "What is the matter, Jonadab?" He just pointed to a spot near where I stood and began to yell again, "Snake run across my foot."

The relief was so great that I looked composedly on the big snake, but called in a tone of unwonted severity, "You must come and kill it." I knew the only thing to prevent Dab from going into a fit was to be severe in my tone, and peremptory.

Most reluctantly and slowly he returned. I cannot imagine why the snake elected to stay in the ivy to meet its fate; it was sluggish, evidently having swallowed something large, either a rat or another snake, for it was very stout. I made Dab find a long strong stick. It required continued urging and encouragement to get Dab to complete the job, but as soon as it was done and he felt himself victor over the thing which had terrified him so, he became puffed up with pride and courage.

September 30.

The storm is over, and all nature is smiling. Oh, the beauty of the sunshine falling on the dark green pines and the ecstasy of the song of the mocking-bird, who is perched on a tall pine just east of the piazza, splitting his little throat, trying to give vent to his joy and thanksgiving to the Great Father! If one could only bottle up a little of this sunshine and glory and ecstasy to bring out on some gray morning when one's blessings seem too far away to be remembered!

I am just writing a line while Dab is having his breakfast and putting Ruth in the buckboard before we start for Cherokee to see the damage done by the winds and the deluge of rain which fell for twenty-four hours. The cotton had opened more fully Saturday than it yet had done, but a slight drizzle prevented its being picked. I fear the hay which was stacked will all have to be taken down.

8 P.M.—Spent the day at Cherokee fighting with incompetency and unwillingness.

The loose, irregular stacks of hay were, of course, wet to the heart, and I had them taken down entirely, much to Green's dismay. He thought it purely folly and fussiness, and I had to stand by and see it done, lending a helping hand now and then, to get it done at all.

He was loud in his abuse of Gibby, his brother, for his incompetency and determination not to work, saying, "He's too strifflin' to lib," but that he himself was capable of everything; not only stacking hay, but everything else, he did in the most perfect way. I let him talk on, for his manner was respectful, and I was really interested and amused to see unveiled his opinion of himself.

It would be very comfortable to see one's self in that perfect light, instead of being always so fiercely conscious of one's own shortcomings. I almost envied Green his fool's paradise.

I went to a stack which he assured he had "'zamined, an' it was puffectly dry, 'cause, I put dat stack up myself." With ease I ran my hand in up to the elbow and brought out a handful of soaking wet hay. But that had no effect; he said that was some he had just thrown back, fearing to have it exposed, as it might rain, looking wisely at the clear sky.

One has to pray inwardly all the time to keep from a mighty outburst. He is better than any one else I could get just now.

Spent some time in the cotton-field seeing that the first pickings were spread on sheets in the sun so as to dry thoroughly. I had put some peanuts in my pockets for the little girls, Jean and Kitty, and I stayed talking to them a little while.

They have up to this time "minded child," that is, each has lived with a married sister and taken care of their babies. They do not look as though they had enjoyed life, nor have they learned anything, and I am anxious to brighten them up a little and teach them to take an interest and pride in their work. Thus far I cannot boast of my success, as to-day Jean picked six pounds and Kitty four!

October 1.

Another gorgeous autumn day, with just enough white clouds flying here and there to make shadows. The cowpeas were picked to-day, and they are bearing finely, and the people know how to pick them; it is not like the cotton. One woman who never can pick more than twenty pounds of cotton had seventy pounds of peas, and Eva had ninety pounds. I feel better satisfied with the day's work than usual.

I got the hay which had been dried put in the barn, which is much better than stacking it, when no one knows how, but I could only do that because the ground is too wet to run the mowing machine; thus I could use the team to haul in the hay. One of the renters came up and paid his money quite voluntarily, which is so unusual that it put me in good spirits for the day.

October 3.

To-day is too beautiful for words. As I went into the sun-swept piazza this morning I felt, like the mocking-birds, an ecstasy of gratitude for so much beauty. I did wish so I could take a day off and sit in the piazza and just bask in the beauty of everything and breathe the crisp freshness of the first fall weather and sew.

I am making a suit of white flannel woven from the wool of my own sheep. I have embroidered the revers and cuffs of the jacket and nearly finished it, and want it to wear these delightfully cool mornings, but I cannot stay to-day.

I must get through my home duties as quickly as possible and make my daily visit to the bedside of my saintly friend, who, having begun her life in wealth and having in middle age been reduced to poverty, has passed fourscore and eight years, a beautiful example of woman, wife, and mother, and is now slowly passing through the valley of the shadow. This is my greatest pleasure and privilege, and whatever other duty is hurried over, to this I give full time.

To hold daily converse with one who, after lying three months in hourly pain, is serene and calm, nay, joyous with gratitude for His many mercies (which some might need a microscope to discover), is a rare opportunity of seeing a true follower of the Blessed One, and I come away always feeling as though I had quenched my thirst at a living stream, refreshed and strengthened.

On the plantations, too, things look bright. The pea-vine hay is falling heavy and sweet behind the mowing machine, and what was cut yesterday has dried nicely and will be raked into windrows this afternoon. The crab-grass hay is also dry and ready to be stacked again. The cotton is opening well, and we can make a good picking to-morrow.

As I went into the pea-field, where the women were singing as they picked, I came upon a spider who was too large to stand upon a silver dollar. I was most reluctant to kill him, for he was doubtless the Hitachiyama of his race.

He scorned to run, or even move quickly away, so sure was he that he was invincible and need fear no foe, and it did seem too unfair to crush out his little greatness, but the bite of such a spider would mean serious illness, if not death, and there were all the women, most of them with bare feet, to run the risk of being stung, so I dealt the fatal blow.

Some of the women picked ninety pounds, and Jean picked forty and Kitty thirty-six.

October 4.

Job knew what he was talking about when he said: "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward." I went to Cherokee in quite an excitement this morning because the cotton-field was snowy yesterday and I expected to make a big picking, but last night, on a plantation three miles away, an old woman died and not a creature has come out to work.

Eva is the "Presidence of the Dessiety," her son tells me, to which Linette belonged, and so, of course, she could not be expected to work to-day, but the other women have no such eminence nor can they claim kin nor even friendship: meanwhile should the weather change and a rain come down, my precious cotton will be ruined.

October 5.

Another brilliant morning, but no hands in the cotton-field but Eva. She, having accomplished the duties falling on her as "presidence" of the burial society and pinked out yards and yards of frilling for the dressing of the coffin and shroud and sat up all last night, did not feel bound to remain to the funeral, as they had not been friends; indeed the departed Linette had been the cause of great domestic infelicity to Eva, so she came and picked her usual thirty-five pounds alone.

I sent Dab to pick for a short time, and he did very well, picking eleven pounds in about an hour. Then I went in and picked for about fifteen minutes myself.

I wanted to find out what the difficulty was. I picked a pound and a half and found it very easy and interesting, even exciting work, and I am no wiser than I was before. If I was not afraid of the sun, I would have gone on all day, or rather until 2 o'clock, for it clouded up after that, and I came home in a pouring rain, which continues at bedtime.

October 6.

A beautiful bright Sunday after a night of heavy rain. The thought of the wasting cotton had to be sternly put aside. I had to visit the wonderful invalid before I could get rid of the nagging thought, "If only the cotton had been picked!" After that the glorious sunshine and singing birds had their full value, and the seventh-day peace reigned within as well as without.

I have a little class in the afternoon on my piazza for a Sunday lesson, eight little boys and one golden-haired, blue-eyed little girl. At first, I had some difficulty in getting them to come, for they always have such a good time playing that it seemed to them a great waste of the golden hours to come to Sunday-school.

Some of them said they were willing to come and sing hymns, but they did not want any lesson. However, I found one little fellow who wanted the lesson, so I told him to invite any one who wanted the lesson to come with him at 4.30 o'clock the next Sunday afternoon, but no one else.

Punctually at the hour three little boys and one little girl arrived, while the other boys in the village played up and down before my gate most ostentatiously, so that little heads could not help turning to see what was going on, and in the midst of one of the Commandments, I heard a squeaky little voice, "I wonder what those fellows are laughing at!" for they had got up a great burst out in the road, quite a stage laugh.

However, we got through comfortably and went into the sitting-room to the piano, and I asked each one to choose a hymn which we sang. At the second hymn one of the boys from the road joined us, but I seemed unconscious of his presence, and when the singing was over, I invited the first four into the dining-room and handed them some little sponge cakes.

The next Sunday there was a full attendance and has been ever since. The lesson has to be carefully selected, as there are four denominations represented, so I take the Lambeth platform and teach the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Ten Commandments. After that I tell them Bible stories, beginning with the thrilling narration of the Creation and the Garden of Eden.

When I first told how Eve was tempted to eat the fatal apple, and Adam too was tempted, and they were driven out from that beautiful spot to earn their living in the sweat of their brows, the interest was breathless, and one little fellow asked:—

"Miss Patience, what would have happened if they had never eaten the apple? Would they have stayed in the garden?"

"Yes," I said with confidence.

"And never had to wear any clothes?"

More faintly I answered "No, I suppose not."

"Well," he said, "the garden would have had to be made much bigger for all the children that were to come."

"Yes," I said, "I suppose the whole world would have been a garden," but I was glad to leave the subject and get on to firmer ground.

However, this Sunday when I asked them to tell me the story, they went on swimmingly until I asked who ate the apple first. Most chivalrously they all answered, "Adam."

"No," I said, "I am sorry to say it was Eve."

"Then," piped up the squeaky little voice, "then, Miss Patience, women are badder than men."

"Oh, no," I exclaimed, "but Eve was beguiled by the serpent, who told her the fruit would make her wise. The great Creator made man first, and meant him to be the protector and guide of the woman, and when she offered him the apple, he should have refused and said, 'Light of my eyes, we must not eat it. The Great Being who made us and gave us this beautiful home forbid us to eat of that fruit.' But Adam failed in his duty and ate the apple, and they were driven out."

My sturdy little brown-eyed thinker, who had been listening with profound attention, said:—

"Miss Patience, what would have happened if Eve had eat the apple and Adam hadn't?"

I was completely routed. "I cannot think what would have happened then."

There was a chorus of little voices: "Why, Eve would have been driven out, and he would have the garden for hisself."

I am quite sure when I was small we never asked such questions. Perhaps when it was read, as it used to be, in the Bible language, it did not take such hold on the mind as it does when narrated, but I am so eager to get their interest and attention that I tell them the stories instead of reading them, and with such success that nothing but force could keep them away.

Always have to light the lamp before we finish singing, but no one will give up his hymn, and as I read over each verse very slowly before we sing it, and they repeat it after me, it takes a good while. It is wonderful how quickly they learn the words.

One very small boy, who strayed in for the first time, when I told him he could choose a hymn asked for "Yankee Doodle," greatly to the amusement of those who had been coming two months. It is a pleasure to teach such bright children. At the end I always hand a few chocolates or some candy.

Casa Bianca, October 8, 1903.

The harvest has come and with it real harvest weather—crisp, cool, clear; and the bowed heads of the golden grain glow in the sunshine. The hurricane which was reported as wandering around last week frightened me terribly, but after waiting Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday for it to materialize, I had to cut on Thursday, for the rice was full ripe, and though we have had some light showers, there has been no serious bad weather. To-day the hands are "toting" the rice into the flats.

You see a stack of rice approaching, and as it makes its way across the plank which bridges the big ditch, you perceive a pair of legs or a skirt, as the case may be, peeping from beneath. Men, women, and children all carry, what look like immense loads, on their heads, apparently without effort. This is the gayest week of the year. Thursday the field was cut down by the hands with small reap-hooks, the long golden heads being carefully laid on the tall stubble to dry until the next day, when it was tied into sheaves, which the negroes do very skilfully with a wisp of the rice itself. Saturday it was stacked in small cocks to dry through Sunday, and to-day it is being loaded into the flats, having had every advantage of weather.

If only no rain or wind comes until it is unloaded at Cherokee, fifteen miles up the river! I have sent for a tug to tow the two flats up on the flood-tide this evening—just now it is dead low water, and the flats are aground, which always scares me; for, if by any chance they get on a log or any inequality, they get badly strained and often leak and ruin the rice. Flats are one of the heavy expenses on a rice plantation—large, flat-bottomed boats from twenty to eighty feet long and from ten to twelve feet wide, propelled in the most primitive way by poles and steered by one huge oar at the stern. They can be loaded up very high if the rice is properly stowed.

I have sent to try and get some rice-birds for my dinner. These are the most delicious little morsels, so small one can easily eat six for breakfast, and a man makes nothing of a dozen for dinner. We used to get them in great abundance only a few years ago, but now the rice-bird industry has become so big a thing we find it very hard to get any at all. Formerly a planter hired bird minders, furnished powder and shot, and got several dozen birds from each one; but now the negro men go at night with blazing torches into the old rice-fields, which are densely grown up in water-grasses and reeds, the birds are blinded and dazed by the light, and as the fat little bodies sway about on the slender growth upon which they rest, they are easily caught, their necks wrung, and they are thrust into the sack which each man has tied in front of him. In this way a man sometimes gets a bushel by the time the reddening dawn brings him home, and he finds waiting for him on the shore buyers from the nearest town, who are ready to pay thirty cents a dozen for the birds, so that one or two nights of this sport give as much as a month's labor. Of course, it is hard to come out to cut rice the next day, so probably illness is pleaded as an excuse for his absence in the field.

This makes it more and more difficult to get the rice harvested; no one but one of African descent could spend his nights in the rice-field, where the air is heavy with the moist malaria, so it is his opportunity. The shooting of rice-birds has almost gone out, for the bird minders are so careless. They shoot into the rice and so destroy as much as the birds, almost; now blank cartridges are almost entirely used to scare the birds. Going round the field one day with Marcus, I said, with great relief: "I'm so glad not to see a single bird to-day." He laughed and said: "Miss, wait till de bird minders shoot." In a few seconds the bird minders became aware of my approach and up and fired very nearly at the same time. The birds rose in clouds so that the sun seemed darkened for a few seconds, and the noise of their wings was deafening. It seemed tantalizing not to be able to get any to eat. In spite of the tremendous report of the firing, it did no execution, for the old-fashioned muskets which are used have an enormous load of very coarse powder, but no shot.

Now, my flats are loaded, and I must start on my twelve-mile drive to the pine-land. As soon as I can have the flats unloaded I must send them back for the hands to harvest their rice. I do not pretend to overlook this. I try to put them on their mettle to do the best possible. Some respond, but the majority just poke along, doing as little as possible each day, so as to have longer time to strip the rice from the straw, and carry it home in bags, so that when it comes to mill, there is not enough to pay their rent. They know how I hate to take all they bring, I so like for them to have a nice little pile of their own to ship; it is very hard for me to believe what the foreman tells me, that they have been eating this rice for three weeks past.

October 16.

I have threshed the May rice, and it has turned out very well, considering the hard time it had for two months after it was planted. My wages field made twenty-five bushels to the acre and the hands nearly the same, only a little less, but it is good rice and weighs forty-six pounds to the bushel; and as I hear every one complaining of very light rice, I am thankful it is so good.

October 17.

I have had an offer of $1.05 for my rice in the rough, and I am going to take it, though I shall miss the cracked rice and the flour which we get when the rice is milled, and the rice will have to be bagged and sewed up, which is a great deal of work; but Mr. S. will pay for it at my mill, and that will relieve my anxiety about money.

October 18.

A hard day's work, but the sale has been most satisfactory, for as the standard weight per bushel for rice is forty-five, and my rice weighs forty-six or forty-seven, I have a good many more dollars than I had bushels, which is very cheering; and I have had grip and am greatly in need of cheering. Mr. S. weighed every sack and put down the weights and then added up the interminable lines of figures. I added them, too, but was thankful I did not have the responsibility, for they came out differently each time I went over them.

October 24.

The harvest of my June field (wages) began to-day. Though very weak and miserable from grip, I drove the twelve miles to Casa Bianca, and in a lovely white piquÉ suit went down on the bank. I timed myself to get there about 12 o'clock, and as I expected I met a procession of dusky young men and maidens coming out of the field. I greeted them with pleasant words and compliments on their nice appearance, as they all reserve their gayest, prettiest clothes for harvest, and I delight to see them in gay colors, and am careful to pay them the compliment of putting on something pretty myself, which they greatly appreciate. After "passing the time of day," as they call the ordinary polite greetings, I asked each: "How much have you cut?" "A quarter, Miss." "Well, turn right back and cut another quarter—why, surely, Tom, you are not content to leave the field with only a quarter cut! It is but a weakling who would do that!" And so on till I have turned them all back and so saved the day.

A field of twenty-six acres is hard to manage, and unless you can stir their pride and enthusiasm they may take a week over it. One tall, slender girl, a rich, dark brown, and graceful as a deer, whose name is Pallas, when I ask, "How much?" answers, "Three-quarters, Ma'am, an' I'm just goin' to get my break'us an' come back an' cut another quarter." That gives me something to praise, which is always such a pleasure. Then two more young girls have each cut a half acre, so I shame the men and urge them not to let themselves be outdone; and in a little while things are swimming. I break down some of the tops of the canes and make a seat on the bank, and as from time to time they come down to dip their tin buckets in the river to drink, I offer them a piece of candy and one or two biscuits, which I always carry in the very stout leather satchel in which I keep my time-books, etc.

Though the sun is fiery, I feel more cheerful than I have for a good while. The field of rice is fine, Marcus says,—"Miss, I put my flag on dat fie',"—and insists it will make over forty bushels to the acre. I don't throw cold water on his enthusiasm, but I know it will not. However, the rice is tall, and the golden heads are long and thick. I count a few heads and find 200 grains on one or two, and am almost carried away with Marcus's hope, but will not allow myself to think how much it will make. One year this field put in the bank $1080, but I know it will not do that this year. There is no use to think of it.

I stayed on the bank until sunset to encourage the slow workers to finish their task. All the work in this section is based on what was the "task" in slavery times. That it was very moderate is proved by the fact that the smart, brisk workers can do two or three "tasks" in a day, but the lazy ones can never be persuaded to do more than one task, though they may finish it by 11 o'clock. I feel placid to-night, for half the field is cut down and will dry on the stubble all day to-morrow.

October 26.

Drove down to Casa Bianca as early as I could and found the hands cutting merrily. As soon as each one had cut a half acre they turned in and tied that cut on Saturday and stacked it in small cocks.

Again I am cheered and rested by the beauty around me. The sun is gorgeous, though the autumn haze is all over the wide expanse of level fields with every hue of green and gold. I get in the small patches of shade made by the tall canes and feast my eyes and thank the Great Artist who has made it all so beautiful.

The three flats are in position for loading to-morrow, the wind is still west, and so I hope the fair weather may last. My supply of candy and biscuits is much appreciated. I make my own lunch on the biscuits and a bottle of artesian water, which I always take with me. I would as soon think of eating snake's eggs as of drinking the river water, so full is it of animal life, I am sure. I know how it would look under a powerful microscope.

October 31.

Spent yesterday in the mill threshing out my rice, most trying to me of all the work, the dust is so terrible; but the mill worked well, and so did the hands—and better than all, the rice turned out well, thirty-five bushels to the acre, and good, heavy rice. So I felt rewarded for the dust and other trials. I was so determined to prevent stealing that I engaged the sheriff's constable to watch on the nights that the rice was stacked in the barnyard; and now that expense is over, and the pile is safe in the second story of the shipping barn. Next I have to thresh out the people's rice from Casa Bianca, which will be up in a day or two; then I will have a little time to have the upland crops seen after before the rice here, at Cherokee, which was planted very late, will be ready to cut.

Front porch—Casa Bianca.