January 1.

On the rice plantation the first of January is the time for the yearly powwow, which the negroes regard as a necessary function. It is always a trial to me, for I never know what may turn up, and the talk requires great tact and patience on my part, not more, I suppose, however, than any other New Year's reception. One is so apt to forget that the "patte de velours" which every one uses in polite society is even more of a help in dealing with the most ignorant, and makes life easier to all parties.

Saturday, January 2.

I went down to Casa Bianca for the important talk. I found two more families had been seized by the town fever. Every year more hands leave the plantations and flock to the town, and every year more funerals wend their slow way from the town to the country; for though they all want to live in town, none is so poor but his ashes must be taken "home"; that is, to the old plantation where his parents and grandparents lived and died and lie waiting the final summons. I met such a procession to-day, an ox-cart bearing the long wooden box, containing the coffin, and sitting on top of it the chief women mourners, veiled in crÊpe; behind, one or two buggies, each containing more people than it was intended to carry; then behind that a long, straggling line of friends on foot, all wearing either black or white, for their taste forbids the wearing of any color at a funeral. The expense of a railroad journey does not deter them from bringing their dead "home." The whole family unite and "trow een" to make up the sum necessary to bring the wanderer home, and even the most careless and indifferent of the former owners respect the feeling and consent to have those who have been working elsewhere for years, and who perhaps left them in the lurch on some trying occasion, laid to rest in the vine-covered graveyard on the old plantation.

Two years ago, a man and his wife, of whom I thought a great deal, who had been married and who had lived always at Casa Bianca, left me to go to town. They had prospered and bought the usual progression—oxen, cows, a horse, and finally a house and lot in the county town, Gregory. This house they rented out for several years, and then the desire came to go and occupy and enjoy the house and give up the laborious rice planting. It seemed very natural, and though I was very sorry to part with them I could not say a word against the plan. Dan and Di were both splendid specimens of physical health and far above the average in intelligence, capacity, and fidelity. They went well provided, according to their standards. With his horse and wagon Dan supported his family in comfort, hauling wood, etc., while Di opened a little shop in one of her front rooms, which was well patronized, as their house was on the outskirts and far from the shopping street.

One afternoon, some months after their move, Di said to Dan: "I'm dat sleepy I haf tu lay down, but call me sho' befo' de sun set." She left Dan smoking his pipe on the little porch, where, about an hour later, the youngest child came to him for something, and he said, "Go ax yo' Ma, 'e toll me tu wake um fo' de sun go down." The baby went and returned reporting, "Ma 'oudn't answer me." Dan went in to find her dead. He brought her home to the plantation, and in a few months his son brought him also, to rest under the moss-laden live oaks.

This is only one instance out of many; those accustomed to regular outdoor work cannot stand the confinement and relaxation of town life.

But back to the powwow at Casa Bianca. The two families who are moving to town carry off four young girls who are splendid workers, and very necessary to the cultivation of my "wages fields." Two of the men announce they are tired of renting and want to go "on contraak." This I do not quite understand, as they always sign a paper promising to do all that is required on the place, which I have considered a contract; and I am a good deal amused over their efforts to explain, when at last Marcus, the foreman, says to them: "De lady aint onde'stan', kase he neber wuk contrak, but I will make she sensible," which he proceeded to do with great delicacy. I found it simply was to work entirely for wages and not rent, and I was expected to give each one a half acre of rice land to plant, in addition to their house and large garden free of rent, in return for which they were to sign "contraak." It is impossible to show by the writing the funny emphasis which they put on the last syllable of this word.

The two hands were poor renters, so that the present arrangement is perfectly satisfactory to me, only the portion of land rented grows smaller year by year, and where is it to end? I cannot plant more land on wages than I do, for it costs $15 per acre, besides the keeping of the banks and trunks on the whole 200 acres. Last year there were ten acres less than the year before, and this year there will be twenty-five acres less than in 1903. Besides this, the plantation to the north of Casa Bianca, whose lands adjoin, has been practically abandoned, so that the water rushes down through its broken river bank on my fields, and I have to go to a heavy outlay to keep it out.

Marcus asked me to go round the bank with him, and after thinking it well over I have concluded to throw out three of my fields and make up a straight bank from the upland down to the Black River, a distance of half a mile, high, wide, and strong enough to act as a river bank, and resist the rushing water which comes with immense force in the Black River, for it is the deepest stream in this section, in many places 60 or 70 feet deep. It will cost a lot, and I do not know where the money is to come from; but if I do not make the stand against the water, I shall not be able to plant anything, and this is the place from which I derive my income.

"He that regardeth the clouds shall neither sow nor reap." This text is my great stand-by when things look stormy and I am discouraged. I suppose the rushing river may be considered as in some sort a relation, or at any rate a remote descendant, of the clouds, and I will not regard it, but give Marcus an order to go to work on the bank as soon as possible.

The week after this visit I was sent for by the foreman at Casa Bianca. When I went down, I found every one in a state of unrest and ferment. Nat, one of the renters, had told the others that he had made a special arrangement with me by which he was to do only what he wished to do. Now, one would suppose that no sane person would believe such a statement as this, but I had been seen talking to Nat apart, and they were all prepared to throw up their agreement and go—"contraak" hands and all. It was some time before I found out what the matter was, for even Marcus was entirely upset and talked mysterious nonsense before he finally gave me the key to the situation. I then assembled all the men and told Nat to recount what he had said to me on that occasion and what I had said to him. He pretended to have forgotten. So I related: "You told me your mother wanted to move to town and take your three sisters with her, so that your working force would be diminished, and you would not be able to rent as much this year as you had done, and you would want only eight instead of twelve acres. I told you I was sorry your mother was going, for though she herself no longer worked the girls were good hands. Then I asked you if you remembered when your mother first came to me. You were a very little boy; she was in great distress, having been turned away from the place where she was living, with her large family of little children. All her things had been put out in the road because she had been fighting, and she entreated me to give her a house to stay in. I told her I heard that she was a 'mighty warrior' and stirred up strife wherever she went. But she promised not to 'war' any more, so I gave her a house and she kept her promise, prospered, brought up her large family respectably, and now owned much 'proppity,' cows, oxen, and pigs, and everything she wanted; and the children had all grown up healthy and happy, and I only hoped they might retain their health of soul and body in town."

They all listened attentively while Nat punctuated my narration with "Yes, ma'am," at every comma. Then I said: "Did I say anything more to you, Nat?" "No, ma'am; dat's all." Then indignation broke out on Nat from the assembled hands. "En yo' tole all dem lie fo' mek we fool! I mos' bin gone way," and much more, all talking at once. Nat only looked foolish and said: "I jes' bin a fun." I gave him a serious talk, and the hands scattered in high good humor; but if I had not gone down that day, in all probability the whole party would have packed up their household goods in their ox-carts and left, "contraak" hands and all! Marcus said, with his usual dignity: "Myself, ma'am, bin most turn stupid"—as though no words could express more fully the seriousness of the situation.

March 12.

Since then things have gone very comfortably and quietly at Casa Bianca. The field I am to plant in April has been well ploughed, the ditches cleaned, and finally the division bank made up splendidly. Across the canal and down to the river it is one foot above "full moon tide." I have twenty-six fine lambs, born in January. At Cherokee, also, I have had some good work done. My "wages field" there was ploughed early in February, so that the frost has had a chance to mellow it. I have ten acres of fine oats growing and ten acres prepared for corn; pigs, cows, and everything doing well, except the lambs. Nine were born in January, but some "varmint," Bonaparte reports, has killed seven. I know the "varmint" is a dog, somebody's treasure, so that it cannot be convicted, and every other animal is suspected,—fox, wildcat; and many strange tracks are talked of.

At Cherokee I had to put down a new trunk, which is quite a business. It requires knowledge of a certain kind, but is very simple, like most things, to those who know. To me it seems a terrible undertaking, for if it is badly done, the trunk may blow out when the field is planted, and ruin the crop. Knowing so little as I do, I thought it best to leave it to Bonaparte, so I did not go over to the place, which is about a mile away through winding creeks.

The tide suited the morning, January 12, and the weather was mild. I waited with great anxiety for the return of the hands in the evening. I rushed down to the barnyard when I heard the boat, and asked if the trunk was well down. Bonaparte smiled in his superior way.

"Well, no, ma'am; de fac' is we neber did git de ole trunk out."

"What," I said, "you have left it half done?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. We bruk up de ole trunk an' tuk out all but de bottom."

"Then the water is rushing through to-night, making the gulf wider and wider?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I was speechless. There was no use saying anything, but I decided to go over the next day and use my common sense, if I had no knowledge. Bonaparte told me he could not get the hands, any of them, to go down in the water, and no trunk can be buried with dry feet.

The next morning, January 13, I went, carrying lunch and a bottle of home-made wine, with a stick in it for those who were to get wet. It was a beautiful bright day, with the thermometer at 50 at 9 o'clock, for which I was very thankful. The tide was not low enough for anything to be done until then. I had had three flatloads of mud cut and put on the bank, and everything was at hand. The getting up of the bottom planks was at last accomplished, and then the new trunk floated in to place on the last of the ebb, so that it settled itself into its new bed on the low water, and then the filling up was a perfect race, so much mud to be put in before the tide began to rise, besides the inclination of the bank to cave in. I kept urging the two men down in the gulf to pack the fresh mud well as it was thrown in. The stringpiece and ground logs which Bonaparte had provided were, according to my ideas, entirely inadequate, and I sent four hands to an island near by to cut larger, heavier pieces. Altogether, the day was one of the most exciting and interesting I ever spent, though I stood six hours on the top of a pile of mud on a small piece of plank, where I had to balance myself with care to look into the gulf and not topple over. It was black dark when we left the trunk, but the mud was well packed, with every appearance of solidity and stability, and the next day I had two more flatloads of mud put on, and, though a freshet has come and gone since, "she" has not stirred; and the field drains beautifully.

The company which planted the places next to Cherokee has broken up. One of the principal investors told me that he had had his money in it for seven years, and never got a cent of interest, and he was thankful to get out of it. They have taken all my best hands, one by one, but they have not succeeded—did not make money for all that. And this year the price of rice has gone down, so that what has been made brings only half of what was hoped for.

I believe these lands would make a great deal if we understood the cutting and curing of hay, for the grass grows most luxuriantly if the land is ploughed and left, but the curing of hay is unknown to the rice-field darky.

Our uplands are very fertile and adapted to any crop, it seems. Last year a few tried cotton and did very well without any commercial fertilizer. The only trouble is the nice cultivation cotton requires. I had a little planted. We did very well and sold at 15½, but I am afraid to plant more than an acre or two, as I cannot get it kept clean, which is essential to cotton.

The freshet, which we always look for after the melting of the snows in the mountains, has not yet come. We had one a month ago, but now it has subsided, and the rush of preparation for planting should go on; but I find it impossible to enthuse my renters. A lethargy seems to have fallen upon them, and if I only had the money, I would plant all the available land myself. But that is a very big if, and I must just have patience and try to rouse their energy. Above me there are only a very few acres planted, as the freshet is more disastrous the higher up the river you go. About two miles above me is a historic plantation, where Marion made a very narrow escape from his British pursuers by jumping into a canoe and pushing up a small creek, while the British, after some delay in getting a boat, rowed, as they thought, after him, but followed the bold, wide stream of the Thoroughfare, which took them rapidly away from him.

This is the home of a very remarkable woman, who has, by her own exertions, educated her sisters and brothers and paid off the mortgage on the plantation. The family was wealthy and accustomed to the liberal use of money, but when the end of the war came, they found themselves with nothing but the land, not a cent to plant or to buy food. This young girl received a present of a small sum of money from a relative in England, which she invested in supplies that every one was in need of, opened a small store, and as fast as she sold out reinvested the money; showing wonderful cleverness and strength and perseverance. She has been the only stay of a large family, always ready to throw herself in the breach and pay anything that was needed. After buying the place in, she planted successfully for one or two years. Then the freshets began, and, after two or three very disastrous years of loss, she showed her good judgment by giving up planting altogether, and all that splendid rice land, under the finest, heaviest banks, is just returning to its original condition of swamp, growing up in cypress. She has land also covered with splendid timber, which must eventually be of great value, but as yet the money value of such things has not reached us, and the little shop continues to support a large family in their beautiful historic home, where with lovely flowers and beautiful oaks, every fence and hedge covered at this season with the glowing, sweet-smelling yellow jessamine, she leads a useful, contented, beautiful life, a blessing to all around.

I mentioned in my last letter that I had lost my good Jim, who had been with me fifteen years. I tried in vain to fill his place, but there was no one to be had that was reliable; so I got a mountaineer in August, paying his way down from the Blue Ridge. He promised well, but on the fifth day he was seized with nostalgia, and I had to drive him the eighteen miles to the railroad and put him on a train to return to his beloved mountains.

I would have had to return the eighteen miles alone on the road had I not met Jim, who was as pleased to see me as I was to see him; for the town life which his wife so loves is odious to Jim, and he asked permission to return to me until I got some one.

Being a person not easily daunted, I again engaged a mountaineer, not finding it possible to get a good darky, paid his way down and had Jim show him all his duties, the roads, etc., and he seemed a very hopeful person; and Jim returned to the hated town, satisfied as to my having competent help. Mountaineer number two showed no trace of homesickness for four months; but then suddenly, one day, it took him. It was no surprise to me. I knew it would come, and had got a black boy as help in case of emergency; so that when the attack came, I had Jake get the wagon and drive us to town, and I put mountaineer number two on the train. Then I increased Jake's wages and put him in charge of the stable.

Last week when I went to Casa Bianca to pay off, I took a niece and her two children, who were staying with me, and we had a very pleasant picnic dinner. The four-year-old children had never been in the country, and enjoyed everything, especially the lambs. Jake's home is about 300 yards from Casa Bianca avenue, and at 12 o'clock I told him that he could go and see his mother for two hours, and that I wanted to leave at 3:30 o'clock. Jake, however, did not return till 5:30 o'clock, though I sent after him; and, in his hurry, instead of calling the horses, which had been turned out on the lawn to enjoy the beautiful pasture, he ran them. Some one had left the gate open, and they dashed through it and never stopped running till they reached the gate at Cherokee, eight miles away, leaving me with my party of city friends, the sun setting and no horses to take us home!

Two men on the place owned horses, but they were turned out and could not be got up for some time. Besides, one was a terrible kicker and the other a runaway. I had to act quickly. I said to the old watchman: "Go and tell the man with the fastest ox-team on the place to come here with his cart at once." In a very short time Nat appeared with a large black ox in a little cart of wonderful construction. I did not see how it was possible for a lady, two children, and a maid to get into it; but, apparently, it was the best that could be done. They had walked on, and I told Nat to go as fast as possible and pick up as many of the party as he could carry, and I would follow, as soon as the kicking horse could be put into a buggy, and take the rest. He assured me his cart could carry all, and went off at a rapid trot. After what seemed an age, Marcus came with his kicker, and with the wraps, lunch basket, and other encumbrances I got in and drove rapidly after the party, which was the funniest looking in the world; Nat running alongside and flourishing an immense cowhide lash, A. and the maid seated on a board which was balanced on the sides of the little structure so as to make a seat, the little boy sitting behind with his feet dangling and the little girl tightly clasped in her mother's arms. They had gone four miles in this wonderful fashion. As soon as we caught them, I made A. get out and take the children in the buggy, while I climbed into the ox jumper with the maid and told Marcus to drive home as quickly as possible, as the children should not have been out so late. I had been utterly wretched till I came up with them and found them all unharmed. Then my spirits rose and bubbled over. It struck me that the others were a little quiet, but I never knew the reason until we were all safely enjoying our evening meal. The maid was supposed to be driving, while A. held the little girl and Nat goaded on the ox, and at a very rough bridge the ox stumbled, the maid fell out, and the wheel ran over her, leaving the rest of the party without any hold on the big black ox! A most tragic situation, and such a mercy no one was hurt. It was very good of them not to tell me until afterward, and it was truly magnanimous of the maid to remark to Nat as she extricated herself from the ingenious contrivance, which he had constructed himself: "It surely is the handiest little vehicle I ever did see."

Saturday. I suddenly awoke to the fact after breakfast this morning that I had a note which was due at the bank to-day. It was pouring, and if I sent a check by mail, it would not be received until Monday, as the mail gets in after business hours. I called Dab and asked him if he thought he could walk down to Gregory and take an important letter to the bank before 2 o'clock. He answered promptly that he could. I got the letter ready and told him he could spend the night with his sisters and return by 1 o'clock to-morrow. He started armed with a large package of lunch and with my best umbrella and a dollar to spend. While I was taking my tea at 6 o'clock, to my surprise Dab walked in with a letter. He said Mr. S— gave him the answer and he thought he had better not go anywhere with that important letter, and so he had come straight back home! I was so pleased and cheered by this evidence of his sense of responsibility and fidelity to a trust. I had felt ill and miserable all day. I told him how pleased I was and thanked him heartily and told Chloe to give him a very fine supper after his walk of twenty-eight miles.

Sunday. I went to church this morning feeling very down, which was wicked, for God's goodness is always there. When I looked around our little church, where a literal Scriptural quorum of two or three was gathered together, my eye was gladdened by the sight of a charming new suit of reseda cloth with a heliotrope toque! Then across the aisle I saw a cinnamon brown suit with a hat to match! Positively my spirits rose at once.

We are so accustomed to our mourning-clad congregation, nearly every one of us wearing black, we all know each other's very respectable costumes from year to year and watch with interest the successful and often ingenious remodelling of sleeves—I being the only recalcitrant who will not cut over sleeves, feeling sure that they will come back into vogue (which they always do before the faithful garment is laid to rest)—we never expect anything so astonishing as a brand-new tailor-made suit, and in colors too, and now to have the eye refreshed by two, is cause for rejoicing.

On Monday, April 18, I planted the wages field at Cherokee. Here we cannot so well use the machines, so I have the field sown by hand. I am planting mill-threshed rice in this field, which is an experiment on my part. In the autumn a buyer for a large rice mill in North Carolina came to make an offer for my rice; and he spoke of the "superstition," as he called it, of planters in this state that only hand-whipped rice could be planted to make good crops. He said the large crops made in Texas and Louisiana, which are practically ruining the rice industry in this section by keeping down the price, are the result of mill-threshed rice—none other is known or thought of. This made a great impression on me, for the whipping by hand is a very expensive process, more so than the actual cost of the work, because it gives such unlimited opportunity for stealing.

I had the habit formerly of planting twenty-five acres and dividing the rice; twelve and a half acres I sent to the threshing mill in a lighter, the other twelve and a half I had taken into the barnyard, stacked, and when thoroughly cured, had it whipped out for seed. The half sent to mill always turned out from twenty-five to thirty-five bushels to the acre; the part saved for seed turned out from fifteen to twenty bushels to the acre.

That happened several years in succession. I never have had a field hand-whipped turn out over twenty bushels to the acre, and I have seldom had one threshed in the mill until these last very bad years turn out under thirty.

All of this made me determine to try planting mill-threshed rice this year. I planted a small portion in a bowl of water on cotton, which is the approved way of trying seed, and nearly every single seed germinated and shot up a fine healthy leaf. So I felt no hesitation about it; and I began with my wages field, putting half a bushel more to the acre in case there should be some grains cracked in the mill. I went over early to the field and sat on the bank all day, while Bonaparte and Abram followed the sowers.

The women are very graceful as they sow the rice with a waving movement of the hands, at the same time bending low so that the wind may not scatter the grain; and a good sower gets it all straight in the furrow. Their skirts are tied up around their hips in a very picturesque style, and as they walk they swing in a wonderful way. This peculiar arrangement allows room for one or two narrow sacks (under the skirt), which can hold a peck of rice, and some of the sowers, if weighed on the homeward trip, would be found to have gained many pounds. They are all very gentle and considerate in their manner to-day, for a great sorrow has fallen on the family. Their tender, sympathetic manner is more to me than many bushels of rice, and I turn my back when they are dipping it out.

I have offered hand-whipped rice for sale at $1.30 a bushel, and mill-threshed at $1 per bushel, and have sold 159 bushels of the former and 225 bushels of the latter, which has been a great help. We have made a fine start on the upland crop, and the corn looks very well. The small acreage planted in cotton also looks well, and I hope it will be worked properly while I am gone.

May 9.

Left Cherokee for a month's absence, and drove to Gregory to take the through train to Washington, where I arrived the next morning in time for breakfast. I have a duty which calls me away. It was a pity to have to leave now, for the people had just become roused to an interest in preparing the land for their crop, and it is the first propitious season we have had for three years with no spring freshet, and I hope to get about 100 acres planted at Cherokee. I feel better satisfied to leave since Jim has returned to work with me and will take entire charge of the upland crop. His health suffered in the confinement of the town work. He was in bed a good deal of the time, and, what with lost time and doctor's bills, his wife found they were worse off instead of better, and finally, after nine months, she begged him to come and ask me to take him back, which I gladly did, and he has gone to work with enthusiasm.

While away, I visited Washington, Mount Vernon, Baltimore, and New York, and was much impressed by the immense strides made in every way since my last visit. The increase of wealth and luxury, the fact that simplicity of life is becoming impossible even to those who would prefer it, the rush and the hurry which one cannot avoid, the tyranny of fashion which no one seems able to shake off—all of these things amazed me. My good black Chloe once surprised me by saying: "You know, Miss Patience, ef yu aint een de fashi'n yu may's well be dead!" But Chloe follows at such a very respectful distance that the "fashi'n" so vital to her at this moment is a watered form of what was worn in New York four years ago. Still, I recognize in it the same note which I find dominant wherever I go and which is to me incomprehensible—it doesn't seem to me very self-respecting to feel obliged to follow some one else's taste so absolutely. One's eye naturally turns toward the changes of mode which are pretty, but to feel bound to follow simply because fashion decrees, I do not understand.

I saw many things that interested me greatly. One evening I was walking back to the St. Denis about 10:30 when my escort said: "That scarcely seems possible at this season." "What?" I asked. He pointed to a closely pressed row of men in a single file, on the edge of the pavement, one immediately behind the other in perfect order: decently dressed, respectable-looking men. It had a strange look to me, and I asked the meaning of it. "That's the Fleischman line." This conveyed nothing to me. "It is a great bakery here, which for years has distributed every night at twelve all the bread left over from the day's bake, one loaf to each man. I know that in winter the line extends many blocks, but at this season I am surprised to see such a line at this hour; it will be twice as long by midnight." My heart just stood still as I looked at it.

That so many men, looking so respectable, could need a loaf of bread, and wait silently, patiently for hours together seemed impossible to me. Where I live there is no hunger, no want; life is so easy, food so plentiful. A few hours' work daily feeds a man and his family.

One day Jim was driving to town to spend Sunday with his family, and the next day he told me that he had met an old woman on the road going from one plantation to another. She seemed half blind and looked so miserable that he stopped and asked her where she was going, and offered to take her there in the wagon, as he had to pass right by. He helped her in and she told him she was very hungry—had eaten nothing since the day before.

"Oh," I said, "Jim, did you give her something to eat?"

"I didn't have nothing to eat with me, ma'am, but the sticks of candy you giv me to take to my chillun; but I giv her them, en you never see any one so please'." Then he went on to say:—

"It seems to me sence I ken remember this is the first person I ever seen real hungry."

"You mean you have never met a hungry person on the road before?"

"I never met none on the road nor never seen none nowhere that was perishin' with hunger."

I was scarcely surprised, for my mother always at Christmas told her man servant to find out the poor and those needing food that she might supply it. The old man always reported that there was no one he could find in need of food, but plenty to whom a present of tea and coffee would be most acceptable, and to these the packages of sugar, coffee, tea, and tobacco always went.

The next thing I wish to mention is my visit to the Agricultural Department in Washington. I went in search of information as to the planting of alfalfa, and the use of the impregnated soil, which is said almost to insure success. That is the crop to which I look with much hope for our uplands, and I have much at heart to take in a beautifully drained area of thirty acres which has been pastured for some years and plant it eventually all in alfalfa. At first I could not get more than ten acres in fine enough condition, I suppose; but all that I can plant this year I wish to. I have already bought the wire to enclose it, which is a heavy outlay, and had the cedar posts got out, so that it will not cost much to get the fence put up; but I have no proper disk harrows and cultivators to put the soil in the best condition, and the outlay is too heavy to venture on buying them, so I will do the best I can with my old-fashioned implements and plant a heavy crop of cow-peas on the land as a preparation for the alfalfa, which I will not plant till September.

It was a great pleasure and satisfaction to find men of intelligence and education whose whole time is devoted to the effort to promote the productiveness of soil everywhere, and to find them willing, I may say eager, to assist me in every way. All the information was given in a brief and yet courteous way that was a great boon to me, and the reading matter furnished me by them on the subject will make it plain sailing, if only I succeed in getting good seed; and the impregnated soil, I believe, will prove a blessing to this section and solve many problems.

On my return after a very hot journey I reached Gregory at 10 o'clock at night and drove to a pineland two miles away, where I was most hospitably received and spent a delightfully cool night. The heat in Washington and New York had been extraordinary for the season. The next morning I attended to my business in Gregory and started on my homeward drive of twenty miles about 10 o'clock. I drove first to Casa Bianca, where the June rice wages field of twenty-six acres was being planted. I found Marcus and the hands in fine spirits. The April rice was very fine, they said, especially the River Wragg, though Marcus told me it was suffering greatly from the need of hoeing, but he could not stop the preparation of the land for the June planting to hoe it out. This trouble is due to the moving of so many of the young people last winter to town. They were all good hoe hands and there is no one to take their place. The men now think it beneath them to handle a hoe; that they consider a purely feminine implement; the plough alone is man's tool.

I stayed at Casa Bianca until 3 and then drove to Cherokee, where everything had a very different aspect. When I drove into the barnyard, after the usual exchange of politeness with Bonaparte as to the health of each member of the family, I asked him how the rice crop looked. He laughed in a scornful way and said: "W'y, ma'am, I may's well say der ain't none." "No crop, Bonaparte; what do you mean?" He continued to smile in his superior way, and the hands standing round chimed in: "Yu' right, Uncle Bonaparte, you may's well say dey's none, we fiel' ain' got none tall een um, 'tis dat mill trash rice; you kin see de rice dead een de row wid de long sprout on um, all dead." I answered quickly, "If the seed is dead with a long sprout on it, that proves conclusively that the seed was not to blame; if the seed had been defective, it would not have sprouted. There was a good stand in Varunreen; before I left, the sprout water had been drawn." "Well, ma'am, dey ain't nun dey now to speak of." "How is the tide now?" "Most high water now, ma'am." "Get my boat out at once and I will go over and see for myself."

While they were getting the boat one of the hands asked me to give him seed to replant his land. "What is the use if you think the seed is bad?" "We want you fer buy mo' seed. Col. Naples got seed fu' a dollar en forty cent a bushel." I told him I had no money to buy more seed; I was willing to give them more of the same rice which I had if they wished to replant, but that was all I could do.

I got into my little white canoe, which I call the "Whiting," and had Bill, one of the most pessimistic renters, to row me down the river. The tide was high. I was able to step out on the bank without any sticking in the mud, which makes it such a horrid trip when the tide is low. I was greatly relieved at sight of the field. There was plenty of rice in it, as I pointed out to Bill as he walked round the bank behind me. The rice was stunted and growing poorly, and upon inquiry I found that it had been dry during the month I was away. Though not a drop of rain had fallen in that time, it had not been moistened by letting the water into the ditches, as it should have been from time to time. That would have made all the difference in the growth of the rice; but foreman, trunk minder, and hands were all so sure it could never make a crop, being mill-threshed seed, that they have not given it a chance, content to declare loudly that there is no rice in the field.

I am greatly comforted by the sight of it, for there is plenty of rice there to make thirty bushels to the acre should no disaster come to it; and I get into the little "Whiting" with a quieter mind, though still greatly distressed about the hands' rice. The row back is most refreshing, there is such a breeze, but the sun having gone down suddenly, the damp chills me, for I had not thought of taking a wrap, it was so hot when I left the wagon. I give orders to Bonaparte to have the field hoed out at once so that the water can be put on as soon as possible. Then I interview the trunk minder, whose business it is to water the rice, and ask the meaning of this talk of there being no rice in the rented fields. He begins about mill-threshed seed, but I show him the glass dish of rice in which every grain had sprouted and grown vigorously. The sight of this seems to confuse him. Then he mentions that he had got a bushel from me "to plant out to his house een a bottom," and that he never saw a prettier show than that patch of rice. "Then," I say, "you see it is not the seed; you must have left that rice exposed in some way to the hot sun just as it sprouted." "Dat's a truth, my missis; it must be so. I did shift the water and I must ha' left it off too long, an' the sun took effec' on de rice w'en 'e was sproutin'."

The result, however, is the same. In the three fields of rented rice the stand is so poor, they tell me, as scarcely to warrant cultivation further. The hands, to begin with, I am told, carried home to eat much more than half of the rice given them to plant. They always take home a goodly portion on the principle that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; but on this occasion, as it was mill-threshed rice and was not coming anyway, and I was safely away in Washington, they scarcely put any in the ground.

Thoroughly disheartened, I got into the wagon and drove to Peaceville, the little pineland settlement, just as the night fell. The dogs give me a joyful, noisy welcome and Chloe seems overjoyed to see me, while little Imp shows every white tooth in his head and his black face beams with joy. Chloe has a delicious supper for me, to which I do full justice, not having eaten anything since breakfast, at 6:30. The bungalow is very comfortable, though not much for beauty—the servants have moved all my belongings from the plantation while I was away, and I find everything I need except my piano and my books. The piano could not be moved because Jim has had the team in the plough every day. They have done very well, however, for the piazza is filled with blooming plants, and the house looks clean and cool in its fresh white wash. The pineland is noted for its pleasant nights, and I woke refreshed in the morning, but to find I had taken a terrible cold in my homeward progress on the river, I suppose.

Wednesday, June 15.

I drove down to Casa Bianca to-day to see how the rice looked and to give orders for the bringing up of mutton weekly. I have been so entreated to furnish the village with mutton weekly again this summer that I have consented to do it, though it is quite an undertaking to have it brought up the twelve miles regularly and early enough in the morning. Marcus met me with a very solemn face, and when I said in my cheeriest voice, "How is everything, Marcus?" he took off his hat, made a low bow, and said:— "Miss, I have very bad news to-day."

"Oh, Marcus, what has happened? Is Rubin dead?" Rubin is a very beautiful bull, the pride of the place. Very slowly and with great dramatic effect Marcus answered: "No, ma'am, but the crop is ruin', all the rice is gone!" "Impossible," I cried, "it was so fine the last time I was here." "Yes, ma'am, but Sunday dey come a sea tide, what just sweep over the bank an' 'e bin on de rice till now; de watah bin a foot deep on all de rice, an' salt, ma'am, salt like 'e'll do for cook with, en to-day fu' de first 'e begin for drop, en I giv' yu' my word, ma'am, in my fiel' de rice yu' kin see on de hill is red, same as red flannel! You kin come en see fu yuself, ma'am, down as far as de bridge, for you kyant walk on de bank, 'e too wet."

I went and saw that the entire place was flooded and that the hills as they peeped out, here and there, had a reddish hue, instead of the vivid green of healthy rice.

What a disaster! A bolt out of a clear sky. If Marcus is right, it means ruin, and up to this time the rice was splendid. Of course, if salt water has covered the rice since Sunday there can be no hope except for the June rice, 60 acres, which was still under the sprout water, which the sea tide only diluted, and so it may escape. Marcus was so thoroughly cast down that I had to cheer him, and searched my brain for grains of comfort for him, until by dint of effort I became quite cheerful myself, in spite of the very black outlook. I made him taste the river water and he reported it still salt.

I stopped at Cherokee on the way home and saw the corn and cotton, and they are beautiful and do Jim great credit, for it is only by the constant stirring of the land with plough and cultivator that the crop has not suffered from the six-weeks drought. The oats are being cut, much injured by the drought, having made no growth and the grain not having filled out.

Tuesday, June 21.

Gave orders yesterday for the threshing of the oats to-day. The engineer fired up at daylight and had a fine head of steam on when the hands assembled, but Bonaparte looked at the sky and said he thought the day was too "treatish to trash" and sent the hands away, at least a quarter cord of light wood having been wasted, besides the engineer's time and the waste of the hands' time, and, worst of all, the losing of the day when there is so much work needed. It did not rain at all, and even if it had rained there would have been no harm done, for I had purposely had the oats hauled into the mill the day before, so that in case of rain they could still thresh. When I drove down, expecting to find things in full blast, I was very much provoked. I just had to leave, for there is no use to give vent to one's wrath. I told them to thresh to-morrow without regarding the weather.

June 22.

Went in to find threshing successfully accomplished; they got through quite early, so I determined to let them finish out their day by moving the piano. The oats made twenty bushels to the acre, which is more than I thought possible. No one in a city has any idea what the moving of a piano is. I always feel as though I were personally lifting and handling it, so entirely is the responsibility on my shoulders. My upright piano is my most cherished possession, companion, and friend, and I am always nervous over the perils of its four-mile drive from plantation to summer house.

A small mattress is put in the plantation wagon—I have no spring wagon—and on that the piano is put and steadied by two men while it is slowly driven out. It always takes eight men, as they are not accustomed to lifting, and they make a great ado over it. Just as the piano was lifted out of the wagon up the rather high steps on to the piazza at the pineland, they set it down at the head of the steps, and gave it a great push to roll it toward the sitting room door, there came a tremendous crash. The piazza had fallen in on the side toward the house. Fortunately there were no men in front of the piano; they were all behind. I was standing very near and called to them to hold on to it a moment. I had two heavy planks brought and put as a bridge from the place where the piano rested into the door, and as soon as they got the front rollers on the plank all danger was over, but for a time it looked as if there must be a terrible smashup. I sent one of the men under the house to see what had caused the crash. He reported it was the giving way of one of the blocks, which was so rotten it had crumbled away. "Why, Bonaparte, I sent you to examine the foundation of this house and see if any repairs were needed, and you said it was all in order." Bonaparte only murmured apologetically that he was too busy to see about such small matters.

I am very thankful no one was hurt, and the dear piano is safely installed. It is a small Steinway upright and is very nearly human in its companionship. This is the sixth Steinway I have had, I believe, having never owned any other. I watch its health with desperate anxiety, for it will have to last me to the end, unless something wonderful happens to revive rice. I have been at the piano all evening and it is now 1 o'clock and I am too much excited to go to bed, and that is why I am writing.

An unknown friend sent me two years ago two volumes of Russian music that I find fascinating. A cradle song by Karganoff and a prelude by Rachmaninoff especially possess me. When I play that Berceuse I feel myself the Russian peasant clasping her child, with intense strained nerves, always alert, in spite of the soothing, delicious melody she sings and the reassuring loving reiterations of promised safety. The prelude is tremendous, foreshadowing awful depths of pain, endless struggle through distress and discord, up, up, creeping to a final chord of perfect harmony, but a minor chord. If I were asked for what I was most thankful in my possessions I should say my power of enjoyment. Here entirely alone, with never any audience—and in some measure because of that—these things can fill me with such intense pleasure that it is like being on a mountain top with the heavens opening in a glorious sunset, revealing to the panting soul the inner Court of the Beyond.

I remember when taking a singing lesson as a girl being so overcome by my inability to express what the music said to me that I broke down and was reduced to tears and said: "Oh, Mr. Toiriani, there is no use for me to go on: I have no voice and it is useless." He turned fiercely upon me and said: "Voice—what does that matter? You must go on. Vous avez le feu sacrÉ." As I used my handkerchief violently in my effort to suppress the sobs that would come, it seemed to me a poor consolation, for if the said fire found no outlet it must consume and not illuminate; but I dared not answer, only struggled for composure to go on with "Buona notte, buon dormir" in a feeble, quavering, high soprano. But I often think now I understand more what he meant. One is independent of outside things; there is a warmth and a glow and a depth that fills and satisfies, irrespective of results and externals.

July 3.

I paid off this afternoon, as the Fourth of July is the day of all days the negroes celebrate. It was always so before the war. Every creature has to be finely dressed.

Chloe came in yesterday in great excitement to say Miss Penelope had opened a big box of the most beautiful hats and she wanted the money to buy one, "Quarter of a dollar and 10 cents." I exclaimed at the cheapness, but when she returned and showed me a very large, black straw trimmed with a wealth of black and white veiling and a huge purple orchid on top I was still more filled with wonder how it is possible.

Chloe is perfectly happy. The cloud which has hung over her for the last week is dispelled by the consciousness that she is suitably provided to celebrate the country's birthday.

July 6.

On Sunday sent word to all the Cherokee hands that I wanted them to hoe the rice yesterday. Of course no work is ever done on the Fourth. It is a day of general jubilation among the darkeys—gorgeous costumes, little tables set about with ice cream, lemonade, cakes; every kind of thing for sale—watermelon above all. Yesterday morning there were three women in the field and a boy to hoe the rice. The other hands sent word that "they couldn't work so soon arter the Fourth."

I am anxious to get the field hoed out, for besides its being very grassy, I see by the weather report that the river has risen to 18 feet at Cheraw and is still rising, and it is most important to get the rice clean of grass and the water put over it before that freshet water gets down here. There are 12 tenant houses on the place with 20 grown hands and about 6 half hands and numbers of children. These people, by their agreement, are to work for me whenever I call them. When I do not need them they are at liberty to work wherever they choose, but when I call them they are bound to come. With this understanding they have their house free of rent with an acre of rich upland, all the wood they need, winter and summer; yet it is impossible to get the necessary work done. One-half of an acre is the task for a whole hand in hoeing rice, and the eleven-acre field should not take more than two days at the utmost; but at this rate it will take more than a week, and I am powerless to command the work. I pay in money always, but they prefer to make excuses of illness to me, and slip off and work for my neighbor who pays in cards redeemable only in his store, because it is done on the sly and in opposition to my authority—in other words, that is freedom.

Who could succeed with such a state of things in any business? I am so discouraged. I do not see where it is to end. This fertile soil must just grow up in weeds and go to waste, because, forsooth, life is too easy here. Why work when one can live without? Why carry out a contract when one can wriggle out of it as a snake does from the effort to hold him with a forked stick, and go and bask in the sun and satisfy the elemental needs as the snake does?

Jim came in to-night, having done a fine day's ploughing, but very angry because he had spent his midday hours chasing three negro pigs through the corn-field. He says they are in the field every day doing great damage, and he cannot find any hole in the fence where they could get in. My own twenty-five pigs are kept confined in a crawl or pen for fear of their getting into the corn, and these robber pigs are fattening on it. I very much fear some one in an unseen moment turns them in the gate, for they belong to people living on the place.

I am broadcasting peas on the field from which the oats were cut, and these pigs are eating them before they can be ploughed under. I cannot bear to order the pigs shot, but suppose I will have to do it. Things have never been so bad as this before. There is some influence under the surface of which I know nothing. God only knows how it is to end, and it is a great comfort to feel that He does know everything and never fails them that trust Him.

July 16.

Our rector came to us for service to-day, and we had an excellent sermon from him. To-night all the neighbors assembled at my house, as usual on Sunday evenings, for sacred music. It always moves me to see the delight every one takes in this very simple way of passing the evening—men, women, and children are equally enthusiastic. I tried having the children in the afternoon, but they did not enjoy it as much, so they all come at 8 and sing until 10, and then home to their night's rest.

July 17.

I was scarcely able to get back from Cherokee to-day, so exhausted was I. Ever since I came home I have been rising at 6 and going into the plantation very early, attending to my work, and getting back to the pineland between 12 and 1—a rag in every way. I am so much the worse for wear that I shall have to give up for a while; as most of the important work is over it will not matter so much. Have had great trouble about the wood again—but will not go over it.

July 18.

Too unwell to go out, so have spent the day in the hammock, reading with great delight Mrs. Gillespie's "Book of Remembrance." What a great thing for a woman like that to leave such a record behind her! How I wish all the great women who have passed out of our sight and hearing could have done the same; it would be an inspiration and help to the poor things growing up, with their confused ideals.

July 19.

As I was still too weak to go out this morning, and the mercury was 94 degrees, I sent Chloe in to the plantation, driven by the Imp. With the big umbrella over her she was most comfortably arranged, and I told her not to hurry back, as Gerty could cook what little I needed. For some reason the trip went against her, and she came back in a very bad frame of mind. She said some one had jeered her on the road, and said she had given up the job of cooking to Gerty, and that I must want to kill her to send her out in such heat.

I really am mystified, for I have gone in every day since June 7, and many days have been hotter than this. Last summer very often Chloe walked in to the plantation and saw after things in the garden, and walked back, in spite of remonstrance on my part. I wish I knew who had jeered her, but I really cannot bring myself to ask. Better just to let her alone until she recovers her equanimity, but it is trying when I am feeling so below par. I certainly shall not send her again.

July 30.

Rose at 6 and went into the plantation soon after 7, and got through my work very comfortably, though the thermometer was 96 degrees when I got back.

Am reading Sir Walter Besant's autobiography with interest. While I was in Washington some one gave me a list of books from the Philadelphia bookstore, and the reduced prices have made it a blessing. I have been able to get books otherwise entirely beyond my reach, and it is such a treat.

I think biography is the most fascinating and satisfying reading. I sent on $7, and no one could imagine what a number of delightful books came back. I positively gloat over them. I have not had such riches in years.

We have a very nice little book club in Peaceville, established about eight years ago by the thoughtful kindness of a friend, who had visited me several times and became greatly interested in Peaceville and its "old time" atmosphere. She sent all the novels her family had finished reading. And her sister-in-law, who lives at the North, but was making a visit South and was there when the books were packed and sent, subscribed to McClure's for the Peaceville Book Club, and has kept it up ever since; also, from time to time, sending a well chosen new book. It is so very kind.

When the first lot of books arrived I went around, mentioning that this donation had been made. I said I hoped every one in the village would join, and that the membership would be 10 cents. Every one was roused and delighted, and there was much discussion as to where the books should be kept. Finally the postmistress, who occupied a little cottage where the whole village assembled to chat while the mail was being divided, consented to keep the books. This was an ideal arrangement, and I had a large bookcase, simply made, with lock and key, and the books were installed.

After a short time two of my dear friends, whom I had thought of as especially likely to enjoy the books, came to me and said they would not be able to join the book club. I wondered, and urged them to join, when the mother said: "We had intended to join, for we thought the fee was 10 cents a year; but since hearing it is ten cents a month it will be impossible for us to indulge ourselves in that pleasure."

"Oh," I said, "it is ten cents a year and not a month. The person who told you made a mistake—" Then they said, "That is too delightful; for we felt miserable at having to give it up."

Now the fee had been merely in order to give some little control over the books, and I had thought if it was a monthly fee we should be able to get some books every year with the fees; but as it was established just for these very cases, I suddenly changed the plan, and 10 cents a year it has remained ever since. The kind friends have continued to send the novels they have read, and some of their friends in New York have sent boxes of magazines, so that the little club now has about four hundred volumes. Our dearly beloved postmistress has gone to join the majority, and the little cottage is closed, and the books have been removed to a shed room in my house, but there is no estimating the pleasure they have given, and still give, and the weary hours they have relieved.

Every year I get one new book with the fees, and this year, thanks to the wonderful Philadelphia bookstore, I got three, for novels are preferred at the Book Club.

When people work hard and have little pleasure they need relaxation, which means "Mrs. Wiggs" and "Lovey Mary" and tales of chivalry and wonder and social joys, and all the things which every one longs to have for themselves and their children. The writer who can blot out all the sordid present and raise one into a different atmosphere and keep one there for two hours is a mighty benefactor.

August 6.

I have suffered so from heat that I felt distracted. Went to the plantation most reluctantly, but it was a relief, for it felt cooler driving, but poor Ruth suffered greatly. I am ashamed to be so knocked down by the heat; my mind seems addled.

Bonaparte's daughter-in-law, Kiz, is very ill with typhoid fever. Her husband brought her to the doctor to-day in an ox cart. The doctor was very angry, saying she was quite too ill and that he must take her quickly home.

I had made some jelly for her and sent Patty running after the ox cart with it. She said Kizzie was very grateful and took it all, saying it was the nicest thing she had ever tasted. Poor, poor soul; in this heat—no ice, no anything that she should have! I who am quite well miss ice terribly, and think of her with that fever!

I sent some jelly to old Amy, too. I do not think she can recover. She is Patty's grandmother. MacDuff feels the heat greatly. The mercury has been over 90 for several days. The colts both have distemper and cannot be driven for a long time.