The San Francisco call., 1908-11-14


drink Of watah? Use dat
sick pears lax I'd die mid de
misery in my haid and de fevah in my
pore bones. Don't get skeered, little
missy. 1 amt gwine TO hut you. Now.
don't you be so skeeredr'
Not be "skeered"i L never was so
frightened IN my life. 1 stood with
one bare foot on the lowest round of
the ladder, which, nailed upright
against the wall Of the old, unused log
house, served as a stairway. ] was
simply paralyzed with fear At first
could see nothing, and the voice came
70 me in the Stiffness of the summer
afternoon almost as a voice from an
other world AS my eager eyes became
accustomed TO the partial darkness Of
the place I saw through the aperture
above a ghastly face peering down at
lne--the face Of a darky, rather young,
but so emaciated and haggard that
started to run away
Don't you go, little missy. Don't you
90 away. Ise got d little gal OBJ my
Oh her and her mother dat I run away
from nay massa. Dey sold my wife and
my little gal away from me and took
dem down sour, and Use gwine 10 get
10 Canada and earn de money and buy
dem back Use been hidin in de
swamp, little missy. acrawlin ober de
logs and atrompin' in de wet VIII nuf-
I'm 10 eat 'cept roots and berries. When
4 come heah I was so starvin dat 1
gnawed de bones dey brung out for de
oawg- He's been powerful good TO
me. dat dawg has-never growled at
me. 'cept just al first, and let me hab
de bones, pears lax he knowed Use
been a pore prisoner. lax he is. But
Ise loose now. praise de LaWdt I'd
rsther be hungry dan chained.
But won't you get de watah little
missy2 I caynt get down de ladder no
mo- Please. little missy please bring
me Ce watahl"
set down the basket ] was carrying
and went around the house. was
afraid 10 so through ito the pump at
The back door. Hanging by the pump
was a big, yellow gOUrd, followed out
fer a clipper. II grew on cid Uncle
Elias place-Old Uncle Elias, who
raised gourds and broom corn. lie made
brOOms. too, on the queer, rafting ma
chine which stood upstairs in the little
house whore he lived al alone
hled the gourd with water and
crept trembling. up the ladder. The
poor darky drained il eagerly, thanked
me with piteous gratitude and sank
back telling nae not TO tell any one ne
was there.
Not even mother" / cried.
80 little missy. don't tell nobody.
Use gwine away jest as soon as get
bettah But don't tell nobody nobody
al an. Use so skeered deyn take me
back 20 massa and den cant neber see
NY wife and nay little gal 40 mo. Ny
little, little gal."
Not tell mother, TO see those great
eyes staring at me everywhere, and
not speak Of it, To know that that
haggard form was up there in the old
=
wonder mother thought I was sick; and
sick I was, in very truth
It was in The second summer Of the
war. Clutches, empty sleeves and pal
lid faces Were getting very common on
the streets Of our city home. Mothers
tender heart grievec with every strick-
en- mother heart. north and south.
Father had decided that nothing should
prevent our usual visit to Cousin Eliza
beth's during the long vacation. more
especially as mother was not looking
extra well So here we We're IN the
country for three blissful months.
Cousin Elizabeth had been left a
widow. with a family OF boys and girls,
and like a plucky little woman, as
she was, had managed TO keep the farm
out OF debt and her boys and girls to-
gether. Father always paid her liber-
ally for our visit" and she said it was
a great help as well as a great pleas
ure.
we had heard Of battles and sieges,
and we children had sometimes run
across the stubble fields, in the hot
sunshine, 10 the railroad track to see
trainload Of soldiers going to the war,
or a sadder load OF sick and wounded
coming home. perhaps TO die. We had
heard of runaway slaves, starving in
the swamDs or hunted with blood
hounds. but. so far these had been but
the distant mutterings Of the terrible
storm that ragged, not so very many
miles away
Ny own school at home had closed
before We came away, but at Cousin
Elizabeth's the tiny school in the grove
by the roadside was still in operation.
Tomorrow was TO be the last day, and
the usual Friday afternoons speaking
pieces" had blossomed out into quite d
literary program, in which OF course,
] was TO take part.
In the evenings we often sat on the
grassy bank, above the road. and told
ghost stories until we were afraid to
90 into the house, past the big hem
lock trees which loomed up so black
and gloomy in the moonlight: or gave
out riddles and cracked jokes until we
rolled on the grass with merriment and
held each other UP, as we went up the
path in a gale of laughter.
On this evening. however. we were
70 begin studying our pieces right
after supper. I proposed getting some
butternuts from the old house. but the
plan was vetoed by the boys. who said
they were last years nuts and so old
they would make US sick, and after
ward proved, to my entire satisfaction,
that they were right. I was uncon-
WINGED then, apd, taking down basket.
slipped out unperceived and went over
10 the old house, with the result Of
which I have told you.
The next day we spoke our pieces
and sang our songs, but my mind was
far away. I had managed to slip out
in the morning apd give the poor darky
another drink and piece of bread and
butter This last he could not eat,
and / was afraid be was very sick.
Saturday il was the same ] was so
worried that mother questioned me
anXiOusly.
Il can't tell you. mother; it would
not be right-at least. 1 think II
wouldn't No, I have not done any
thing wrong, nor any one. Oh, mother,
please trust me little while. Oh,
don't know what 10 do don't know
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