YEAR by year Green Forest was enlarged and beautified, its many buildings so arranged as to give the plantation the appearance of a village.

  A wide avenue opened from the Savernake and Darien turnpike. Large overhanging trees entwined on either side, their limbs forming an arch festooned with grey moss, rays of sunlight here and there darting through to the sandy way. One could get merely a glimpse of the Colonial homestead, with its cream-coloured Corinthian columns.

  At right angles with the avenue, a street led to the Sandyrun Road. Its length was dotted with buildings, and row after row of negro houses, a small enclosure in the rear of each for a vegetable-garden. The cabins were not made of logs, but of deal, with brick chimneys.

  Midway of this street was a circular enclosure, its lattice-paling hidden by a wealth of Cherokee roses, their glossy green leaves and creamy flowers glistening in the noonday rays. And here hung an up-swinging pole, with its moss-covered bucket. Little moss, however, collected, so constantly was the bucket on the dip, its sparkling contents quenching the thirst of hundreds in the quarters.

  A few yards to the left glistened a small duck pond,—the rendezvous for geese and ducklings. Splashing and cackling in delight, they were surrounded often by troops of black piccaninnies, squeezing soft mud between their toes.

  Surmounted by a crowing cock, symbolic of poor Peter's treachery, stood a church with a pointed tower; in the rear a grave-yard hedged round with young cedar trees.

  Nothing in modern machinery could be more wonderful and impressive to us than was our cotton-gin. The building simulated a summer-hotel, with a wide uncovered piazza, for drying raw-cotton—the principal staple of the place. Day after day Uncle Toby sat in front of a keyboard with sharp savage-looking teeth, running handsful of cotton to and fro, from base to treble. But no musical sound came, save the rattling of jet-black seeds into a hamper below as the liberated fleece, like flakes of snow, whirled into a window-

  "Is you chilluns a-wantin' ter be suffocated? Sure's you puts your nose inside dat dooe, you is done fer, jes as good as if you is buried six foot underground."

  We were sure a few moments in that fairy chamber could do no harm. But the foreman was wise. From openings in the gin-house floor long bags were suspended. Down into these, negro men, with heavy pestles, compressed five hundred pounds of cotton. Modern invention—the great compress—does this work in a few minutes.

  Near the sea, on our rich bottom lands, the cotton plant attained a growth of fully six feet, its branches covered with pale yellow blooms with purple centres. These crinkle into an elongated pod, resembling a hickory-nut; and when brown and dry pop into four quarters, from which a wealth of fleece quivers in the slightest breath of air. On clear autumnal days, the tall sepia-coloured stalks appeared dry and lifeless; yet, day after day, soft snow-white tufts hung from myriad branches, thus outlining a picture long to be remembered.

  Near the pond, grouped picturesquely, were

  A ride on this revolving circle was our delight. And Daddy Joe had frequently to rescue us from perilous positions.

  After a Jewish synagogue the blacksmith shop was designed; and opposite to it was an imposing structure, replete with rice threshers, circular saws, and turning-lathes. Home-grown maple or oak was fashioned there into furniture; for, negroes that married on the place were "set up" in housekeeping.

  Against the chimney corner of his cabin young Bill often leaned his bench, tingling a besmeared banjo. Sweltering over an open fire, Dinah, his bride, fried slices of bacon, while the corn loaf browned in a ring-top oven.

  "De pone am' done. Come, Bill, les' eat supper.

  From tin plates they ate their rations; serving them out, too, in no meagre quantity.

  Dancing in the brick-yard always followed the lighting of kilns. Lydia took "her children" as lookers on; she herself dared not hook arms in the giddy whirl; Parson C. C. was far too strict to countenance such frivolity in his church members.

  Christmas festivities held a prominent place in the minds of both workers and children. Before the Pleiades faded into the light of morning, we were astir, eager to say first "Merry Christmas!"

  "Now deir is dat blessed chile done kotch me! Here, honey, is a fresh aigg jes dropped yisterday."

  We disbursed our debts from a hamper of cakes.

  A bell summoning us to breakfast, stalwart negro men would perch us upon their shoulders,— our arms clasped about their woolly heads. So they trotted home, at a pace dangerous to life and limb. An army of little blacks in our rear whooped and screamed with delight. Many of them, in fact, in hot haste to join the fun, forgot to complete their morning toilet, appearing without certain essential garments.

  No queen ever enjoyed a triumphal procession, with its pomp and show, more than we did our home-going on Christmas morning. Our doll tables were for a time replete with eggs,— boiled, fried, whisked, or scrambled, with nuts for dessert.

  Southern children lived among such environments, petted and spoiled by faithful slaves.

  In front of the church, on Christmas evening

  Upon the arrival of the white family, the signal to begin was given. Scipio, the master of ceremonies, usually asked his master for a blessing.

  Daddy Frank lifted both hands reverentially, after my father's voice ceased: "De Lord help we niggars ter be true an' faithful ter we w'ite folks what has spread dis here bounty fer we spacious 'joyment."

  The foreman then added, with commanding tones, "Hunno people, stand at a 'spectful distance till de w'ite folks is sarved, den you may set to but be sure you eats dis luscious meal in a decent an' proper manner."

   Dancing followed the refreshments, interspersed with the cutting of an imaginary "pigeon's wing." This, as may well be inferred, requires an agile body.

   The noise and frolicking that followed were not produced by stimulants; it was but the unchecked outburst of happy hearts. Though the negroes possessed no money, they, in reality, had an un-

  Merry-making was not confined to the quarter alone, for the homestead itself was rarely ever free of guests. This, of course, entailed extra domestic work, yet the servants gloried in a house full of people.

  Even now, as many gentlemen know, negro men are experts in clothes-brushing. It would also be difficult to find a better maid than a negro girl accustomed to attend on her mistress. So, when it became necessary to dismiss Lydia from the nursery, mother's cares were greatly increased, and Phoebe, who succeeded her, had a hard time:

  "Go 'way! you sha'n't dress us; we want mommer to button our clothes. Leave go our curls, you're a horrid black niggar, we want mommer with her red bandanna and white apron. Why don't mommer come in the mornings; why has she left us to rake up old leaves?" This fighting and howling went on in the nursery until it almost distracted our mother.

  Letha said one morning, "Phoebe, you sha'n't talk about mommer, she's not bad, she is the best

  And though Lydia had been overwhelmingly humbled, our first thought in the morning was always to run in the direction of the "trash gang," as the convalescent workers were termed.

  Lydia, at sight of her "w'ite chilluns," dashed her rake to the ground and clasped one after another to her bosom, covering their chubby hands with kisses.

  "Do, chilluns, beg missus ter let me come home! I wish I was daid; how can I lib away from my pets? Is I neber goin' ter be forgiven?"

  Her hot tears were quickly brushed away by baby fingers.

  She was not the only one on the plantation that was utterly miserable. Marlborough was simply desperate. Not because he was a slave; not because his pockets were empty of gold and silver. It was because there seemed no prospect of his marrying the woman he loved. Indeed, if she but caught sight of him she either hastened away or hid her face. Gossip accordingly grew rife among the field-hands, many assuring Marlborough that he wasted his life waiting for a smile

  With no opportunity to ask her if it be true, the last vestige of hope was crushed, and, man-like, Marlborough sought to comfort himself in the company of another woman. His amatory attention was given to a field-worker younger than Lydia, who lived on Mr. Joe Lamont's plantation,—three miles distant. Their courtship was brief; scarcely three weeks.

  He gave Flora, the night he married her, a plain gold ring with marks inside,—unintelligible to her untutored mind.

  A ginger-coloured baby arrived in course of time in Lydia's cabin. And when we were permitted to visit them, she again and again entreated to be taken back. "Beg missus ter forgive me, an' let me come home."

  Early in summer, wearing a spotless apron and crimson head handkerchief, she resumed her former position, greeted with a clapping of tiny white hands and screams of joy.

  In a year's time she gave the lie to gossip, and was married at Pleasant Grove church by Dr. C. C. to James, servant of Colonel Cummings.

  James gathered oysters and fish for his master; and he kept "us" well supplied with lovely seashells; our toys, in fact, were the handiwork of different coloured men on the estate.

  Lydia's hands and life were full, caring for a number of children, who embraced every opportunity to mount bareback horses, climb trees, get over "stake and rider fences," acting, in fact, like lambs in pasture—never still a minute. In our pranks the negro workers helped us, incurring censure rather than report our misdeeds. I recall one dreadful experience:

  Beside the saw-mill stood long box-like structures, designed to flood or keep dry rice-fields. Sawney had started with four easy-going oxen, carrying one box suspended between lumber wheels. Letha, always my leader, suggested the fun of exploring the other.

  "You go in yonder end!" said she, "we will cross in the centre." We did not think of dimensions.

  As an infant endeavours to get at its playthings scattered on the nursery floor, so we essayed to go through the rice-field trunk. Our creeping for a time was seemingly unimpeded, then nails protruded, rending pinafores, dresses, pantalets and stockings, not to mention delicate skin.

  We both, in short, possessed a goodly store of

  We eventually reached the centre of that low, narrow thirty-foot box; but to pass each other was quite another feat.

  If a cat's head goes through an opening, the body easily slips in. We two might have kissed, but there we stuck, nails above, nails below, splinters on every side pinning us fast in our perilous position. Our tears intensified the darkness.

  "Ding-dong, ding-dong," sounded the dinner bell, stimulating our healthy appetites.

  Lydia called, "Letha, Dodo, way is you? De dinner bell is gone. Come quick, aunt Affie is got a big sweet pudden fer you!"

  Leading his horses to the pond to drink, Marlborough stopped for a tete-a-tete with Lydia.

  "Bro' Molbro, is you seen my chilluns, dat only a minute ago was makin' a block-house? Here is deir bonnets, but where's dem two tomboys?"

  Though now a married man, Marlborough's heart still burned with the old love; so, wishing her to tarry, he replied, "The children will come soon."

  "No; I hears dem cryin'; dey must be up some tree."

  He tied his horses to a branch, and together

  The thud of horses' hoofs jarred us and we heard our nurse's voice still calling.

  "Mommer," we screamed, "here we are! Take us out, we can't move an inch."

  "Honey, way is you? De pudden is gittin' cole. Law, bless my soul, Bro' Molbro, if here ain't my two chilluns in de rice-field trunk."

  Marlborough grasped the situation, and, with deafening blows of an axe, liberated us. He then gently lifted us to our feet, a mass of shreds—blood-stained—hanging about our scratched arms and legs.

  Lydia hastened home and dressed us for dinner, her face wearing an innocent expression. We wouldn't be punished if she could prevent it! Our clean frocks mother noted; and this, with her sympathizing words as to bruises on our hands, cut into our guilty hearts.

  "I don't want any pudding to-day, do you, Dodo?" Letha whispered. "Mother, will you excuse Dodo and me? There are cardinal birds picking about our trap; perhaps one is caught."

  She was closing the dining-room door when a gentle voice said, "I would like to speak to my little girls in the nursery before they go out."

  Alas! Our pudding was uneaten, and we were entrapped, instead of red birds.

  Quick as a flash Lydia quitted her post beside the infant's high chair; for she did not wish the debris on the nursery floor to shock her mistress.

  Of course punishment ensued; for we might have been suffocated but for timely aid. Besides, we had often been warned not to put even our noses inside the water-gates.

  "Which would you mind most, Letha, going to bed or having a switching," mother asked.

  "Switch me and let me go to my trap," she replied, crying as if her heart would break.

  "And you, Dodo?"

  "Let me go to bed, please; I'm so tired, I don't want to play any more to-day."

  She took me by the hand, and calmly turned to Lydia:

  "Put Letha to bed.

  "Oh, missus, you is made a mistake; it's Letha don't min' switchin'."

  Waving her into silence, mother gave us that which was most disagreeable. And while I made the welkin ring, Letha lay robed in white, snugly tucked in bed.

  Rightfully, I should have been one of the best of children,—if prayers of the righteous avail.

  On all well-regulated plantations it was a custom to record daily events. Accordingly, from my father's diary I now quote a few paragraphs, which may give an insight into the relationship existing between master and slave.

GREEN FOREST, Feb. 2d, 18__.

  The sun rose clear this morning, blending its rosy light with a profusion of full-blown peach blossoms. I stood at the nursery window, after an anxious night, watching my field-hands going to work, shouting and rejoicing over the birth of another little girl-mistress. God grant that the wee infant, cradled in its mother's arms, may be a comfort in days to come to my negroes. In God's love may she and her slaves ever rest.

February 9th.

  According to old-time negro custom, many brought offerings of chickens and eggs for the new-born child, entreating that they might have one peep at its face. "Mother" feared the exposure, but I could not resist their entreaties; one by one they peered into the soft folds of flannel for a wee baby face nestling in Lydia's arms.

  Lydia's proud look showed she hoped that the child, Saccharissa Alice, would reign some day a princess of royal blood.

  The name, too, delighted the old women. "Sure," said they, "it's high time missus had a namesake."

  In truth, this name had been given to two other daughters, each in turn, however, christened otherwise. One of Lydia's favorite rhymes seems quite apropos.

  She represents cocks welcoming in the dawn. One crows lustily: "Woman rules here." Answered: "So she does here." An overgrown Shanghai seeming to say, "And everywhere."

SUNDAY, Feb. 14th.

  Frank, our coloured preacher, is not an ordained minister, but has been set apart by our pastor and elders at Midway church as a watchman over Green Forest. He has authority to perform the marriage-rite, but not to administer the sacrament. He preaches in the negro chapel, every Sunday night where prayer-meetings are held during the week. I attend, by way of encouragement. Tonight he opened the meeting with an earnest appeal to the Lord in behalf of the "dear good missus an' her baby."

  "O blessed Master, keep dy best benediction fer de young child what is come to us'long wid de early dew an' de mornin' star. We is hear read 'bout a star what shine ober Israel, when de brederen was a-callin' from de watch tower, 'What of de night?' No answer come, only one little star a-twinklin' an' a-twinklin' till lik' a cloud of fire it rise an' stopped ober de manger where de blessed Lord was a-layin'. It ware a joyous break o' day, when de sheperds found deir Saviour a-sleepin' 'long side beasts o' de field. Dey straightway took de best of all dey had an' laid it at de feet of de young child. An angel of love

  Frank then took the text, "Unto us a child is born."

  His scripture quotations are ludicrously twisted, his reasoning powers abstruse, but beneath his tortuous paraphrases is a deep sense of God's love and his own unworthiness."

March 13 th.

  To-day, at Midway, the baby was christened Eugenia Amanda; but she is nicknamed Dodo.