The Banner-Democrat. [volume] (Lake Providence, East Carroll Parish, La.) 1892-current, 1896-08-01
BUNcH,s BEND.

tOucu tue tangled grasses on the
ground. They are weighted down by
their wealth of leaves and berries.
The volume of the Mississippi grows
strong and turbulent; its yellow sur
face is dashed into white-capped waves,
and great black masses of drift wood
are borne on its current.
Old Harry Balfour watches. uneasi-
ly, the clouds. the earth. the water.
"Sho is his time Miss" whispers the
old man very slowly and with a tremor
in his voice '.Sho is his time. " ait
Jest one min'-Thar! thar he goes!'
cries the negro. Right thar through
them underbrushes; thar whar the lit
tie white church stands; over yonder
by them broken down grave stones"
We look toward the spot indicated.
but see nothing save the elder bushes;
the cypress trees, the yellowish red
trumpet vines and the indistinct out
lines of the little white church. "What
does he look likeP' l asked. sIs he
white as a sheet and his body thin as a
vapor?" ..Lor.' Lor. Missr' and the
old man laughs heartily. 'He amt no
mo- like regular liant than you is.
He's jes like any other man. 'cepten his
face; that's sorter pale and skeerish;
and his eyes, they's big and deep set.
and looks like dark lights in 'um.
He wears long gray blanket
shawl that kivers him from his neck
to his feet, but once 1 seed him
throw it off. That's the furst night
he ever come to me. Then seed the
blue shirt what he had on. 1t wuz too
big for i'm and open at the neck and
around his belt wuz hung his knives
and little pistol and some strings and
a yellowish bag, and he SEE TO me,
Harry" seq ne, "My name is
Bunch, and this very place whar you
lives ulster belong to me. and that's
why its called Bupch's Bend. Do you
hear? Its called =" But by dis time
1 begin feeling sorter creepish and
so seq L: Yes, yes sir. Does you
want sompen to eatp" and l starts
out out of de bed. But no, Miss, dat
man didn't want nothin.' He didn't
want no corn bread. and he didn't
want no pork, and he didn't want
nary bit of cake. and he didn't want
no sodtegmillion; no, Miss. pom my
acord, he did, acant no acatermillion.
All he wants wuz jes to tell me thar
wuz a chest as big as he wuz,
buried out thar in the grave yard, and
that it wuz full, Miss, mind you, plum,
full of gold.
Him and his chums. they hid it way
| fore de war, and it didn't belong to
none of um. and now he says his
speerit it can't get no rest til dat gold
has done been found and giben back
to de ancestors of dem folks what he
| took it from"
Then Uncle Harry told US the story
of the river pirate.
In January 1865. when the Colonial
settlements were being tormented by
the English government, King George
l, with his usual short sightedness,
sent to the puritanic village of Salem
band of some two hundred odd
soldiers for the purpose of spying on
the inhabitants of that town. These
soldiers made no small stir in the sober
sided little village. Their uniforms in
themselves, occasioned much excite
ment. The coats we're crimson, trim
med in gold buttons. The shirts
were of the finest white cambria, with
frills and ruffies and tucks galore.
The knee breeches were blue cloth and
had gold bands up the sides. The
stockings were of the richest red silk.
Add to this gorgeous outfit sword as
keen and silver and bright as the rays
of the noon-tide sun, and big hat
with white plume waving above it,
and you can form some idea of the
glory and magnifcence of one Of his
Msjesty's, King Georges servants.
| Then, too, most of these men were
dudes and took great pains in powder
ing their hair and arranging it in q
graceful queue at the back of their
necks.
We said their appearance made no
small stir in the sombre town of Salem,
but we must be just enought to add
that though their laughter was very
loud and merry, and their faces very
handsome, and their manners brave
and dashing, the little Quaker maidens
had been so warned against them that
they vertically believed the brilliant
cavaliers were soldiers of the Evil
One; nor would they any more dare to
look at them and flirt with them than
they would dare, on the solemn Sab
bath day to laugh out loud, or 60 to
an apple pairing, or take one measure
of tho stately minuet.
For some months the two social
streams flow ed uninterruptedly through
the shaded. streets of Salem. The Puri-
tans in their gray CARDS with their high
steeple hats and big prayer books GO
ing to church thrice on Sunday and
once every week day; the British
soldiers, beating their drums and sing
ing their songs. going to and from
the old Custom House, at all hours,
during all days. However, after
a while. the two unlike currents crossed
each other. One morning the house of
Goodman Choyce was alarmed by the
pitieous moaning of its little Quaker
mistress. She came into the dining
room, her face whittier than the spotless
kerchief around her neck, and hand
ed her husband note, saying: "She's
been bewitched! She's been be-
witched! / saw old Beldame Mar
tin looking at her with evil eye. Poor
little Conscience! Poor little Con-
sclencer' The placid Quaker mother
wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
Meanwhile Goodman Cloyce read the