AS history records, St. Augustine, Florida, was at one time a busy Spanish trading port, as well as in Colonial days a landing-place for native Africans. Later, it also became a famous negro mart. Even now the remains of a fort continue to attract visitors that journey south, to winter, under tropical suns, and among orange-groves with perfume-laden sea-air. But of the many visitors attracted there yearly, few, I fancy, give a thought to the aborigines that were driven from their land of flowers to ice bound regions. Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe—whose book, "Uncle Tom's Cabin," thrilled the universe, I confess—had her winter home in this part of the south, where both good and bad masters brought their slaves to be sold.

  About ten years ago, fire, happily, destroyed

  Caesar, Machiah, and hundreds of other slaves were bought here and transferred to Green Forest. Marlborough's master, on one occasion, occupied himself before the auction by noting the good points of those to be sold. A likely lad, industriously whittling a white-oak strip, attracted him.

  Accosting him, he said, "My boy, what are you making?"

  "A bow, ah!"

  "A bow! Surely, at your age, you don't play with bow and arrows, do you?"

  "I kin stretch a bow as good as de best of dem—kin bring down a turkey or steer when we comes 'cross one."

  "Is that right? would you kill a steer that did not belong to you."

  "You see, boss," he replied, "Pow-wow swears de cows in de oak-lands an' de boars in de canebreak ain't nobody's; so, by occasion, we kills a fat fellow."

  "Who is Pow-wow?"

  "Dat Injin yonder," pointing to a Cherokee warrior, partly robed and partly plumed, who was leaning against a post of the auction-shed, looking on merely as a matter of curiosity; or, perhaps, hoping to sell Indian wares.

  "What's your name, my boy?"

  "Abel, sah."

  "Where is your father?"

  "Never had none."

  "There you are mistaken, Abel; everybody must have had a father."

  "I reckon Pow-wow is my pa."

  "No, indeed; you are too black, and your hair too kinky to be the son of a red Indian. Is that your mother over there nursing her baby?"

  "I don't 'member my mudder, 'cept dat she lick me one night."

  "How long is it since you've seen her?"

  "Nigh on ter eighty moons.

  "Impossible! You are not more than sixteen years old now."

  "Boss says I's twenty."

  "Who is the boss?"

  "Dat man wid de brass buttons; you'll see him mount de block presently."

  "So, you have been sold here before?

  "No, sah ! I come one day wid Pow-wow, an' de boss tell him to bring me ter-day. He say

  "Then you have been living with Pow-wow? Are you just from the wigwam?"

  "It's three moons since I fus quit de Injins. Old man Thorne pick up a stick ter make me go an' hoe he turnip patch; but I tell him last week I wouldn't stay dere; I likes Floridy de best. We has gumbo an' oranges; turkey is plenty, too."

  "Where is Thorne?"

  "You see dat man standin' 'longside a critter wid a calico colt ? Dat's he."

  A tall scrawny pine-land cracker busily adjusted the girth of his saddle. He covertly watched my father questioning Abel, wondering, doubtless, what they could find to talk about.

  "Tell me your mother's name, Abel."

  "Miss call um cook."

  "You had a missis, then! What was her name? Was it Thorne's wife?"

  "She ain't no missis; she 's poor cracker. She ain't no better dan me. I sits 'longside Becky at table; she's de oldest gal of de fam'ly, an' kin skin a sheep as good as de Injins. She beats her baby jes like it was stone."

  "How did you happen to leave your mother

  "I 'members one night I was tired sleepin', so I was goin' in de dark ter de quiltin' an' somebody give me a long stick o' candy. We trotted on horseback, an' when I wake up I was sleepin' in de bed wid lots of w'ite chilluns. I didn't have no breeches, so dey gib me one of de w'ite boy's. We chilluns play in de log-house, an' when I cry ter go out, de old w'ite 'oman hol' me. She say it ware too hot; I better stay 'long side de fire."

  "Did you live there long?" asked my father, smiling at this incoherent speech.

  "I's done forgot, sah. We ride on horseback ag'in, an' when I wake up Pow-wow squaw was feedin' me wid gumbo and oranges."

  "Have you been ever since with Pow-wow and his children?"

  "I's all de chilluns dey's got."

  "Why did Pow-wow want to sell you?"

  "Dat old cracker Thorne tried ter fight wid Pow-wow 'bout me; den Wunda say dey better sell me an' share de money."

  "Is Wunda your squaw-mother?"

  "She's good to me. I likes her; she cooks fine gumbo. Mass does you have any gumbo turkey? Becky's husband say dis mornin' dat if

  "You are safe, Abel, but why are you so afraid of fire?"

  "I fall in de fire once an' burn my arm w'ite."

  "You did! I must see that scar; I won't buy you if you are unable to work."

  Having arranged his saddle, Thorne sneaked around to where Abel stood behind a house; he removed his jacket, while father examined the white scar on his left arm.

  With suspicious eyes Pow-wow was restless, his feathers waving in the sea-breeze.

  Recourse to the law, in order to stop the sale of Abel, would have required time, giving Pow- wow another opportunity to secrete his fosterson in the dense canebrakes of Florida. Father deemed it important to take the boy Abel to Siberty County as soon as possible.

  The auctioneer, therefore, agreed to give a deed of sale at once, swearing that he himself had bought the boy from Phil Hertz, down at Tampa Bay.

  At the homestead, when Marlborough reined in his horses, it was dark. "Have your supper

  We gathered about father, begging he would tell us how many Indian squaws, with their pappooses, he had seen in Florida. But he kissed us good-night, with the words, "Be good children; to-morrow after breakfast you shall hear a real true Indian story."

  The rumbling of carriage-wheels aroused Mr. Winn, who was dozing beside his library fire. Opening the door himself, he greeted his visitor:

  "Good evening, neighbour. Come in and have a cigar. I've just opened a fresh box of the best Havanas."

  "Thank you, not now; I am in a hurry. I hear your cook is very ill."

  "She is, faithful old soul; she will hardly last another twenty-four hours. I was with her good part of last night. But she's growing weaker, day and night calling for her boy John. Every time the door opens she imagines it's he."

  "Let's go to her at once. Do you think she'll recognise me?"

  "I can't say. An hour ago her mind was still wandering. She talked incessantly of her lost son, eaten by a big black bear. You know, friend James, I have a feeling that that fellow

  Talking earnestly, the two planters reached the cabin. Marlborough and Abel followed in the rear.

  An aged granny sat in the room nodding by the bed of a dying woman, whose only child Amy, soon to be motherless, lay sound asleep on the floor.

  Mr. Winn spoke. Then his visitor greeted the sufferer: "Are you feeling better to-night, old woman? I hope you are as happy as you used to be in Greenville some years ago."

  "T'ank you, massa. I feels pow'ful weak."

  "Do you know me?"

  "Yes, sah, I knows you; it's Mars Janes. You kill dat big black bear what eat my boy John. Is you got de skin on your floor yit, sah?"

  "Feede, Feede, listen! Suppose I told you no black bear ever touched your son, would you believe me?"

  At the name "Feede," Abel, who stood in front of the fire, sprang to the bedside.

  "Ma," he cried, "is dat you?" Then he peered into her half-closed eyes.

  Weak and exhausted, Feede continued:

  "Ma! ma!" continued Abel, "here's your John! Here I is, ma! No bear eat me! Don't you know me? I ain't name Abel; I's name John. Don't you 'member you spanked me an' kivered me head an' ears when you was a-going' ter de quiltin'?"—throwing his arms round her neck.

  Startled, Feede returned the embrace. "Bless de Lord! I's find my boy." Her glazed eyes fastened upon his face. "Pull up your sleeve, John; let ma see de w'ite scar."

  "Mars Janes," she cried, " here sure 'nough's my John! Did you kill de bear?" She gasped a few times, then fell back upon her pillow;—her fingers patted the coverlid.

  "Lie down, John, lie down, let ma kiver you up. Ma's goin' cross de riber, but ma'll be back bumbye."

  By the influence of a hidden sense, that needed but a trifle to kindle into life a dead memory, Abel picked up the lost thread that bound him to the past: a familiar but forgotten name brought all to mind.

  After Feede's funeral, father bought Amy. When packing her mother's effects, she found a pair of little pants, securely bound up with a bright patchwork quilt that Dean's cook had given Feede. The latter had never been used; for, with negro superstition, no one would lie beneath a covering that had cost a mother so much sorrow.

  We were to hear a real Indian story before breakfast, but Lydia forestalled her master. Shaking each child excitedly, she said, "Jump up, chilluns, de heavens is weepin' fer joy! de ground is w'ite wid angels' tears! Bro' Molbro say he couldn't sleep las' night fer singin' hallalujah! Dat old bear from Bulltown swamp galloped to Floridy an' puked de boy John plumb 'fore a Injin's' wigwam; he was pleased wid de mudderless child; so de squaw feed him wid gumbo soup an' oranges. Would you believe it, chilluns, he is growd ter be a big man? It's de same fellow what eat supper in de kitchin las' night. Nobody know'd him. Down in Floridy de Injin warrior mus' a liked massa's talk, caise he give him John ter bring ter his mudder, Feede. When ]he seed de w'ite scar, she pulled up de quilt what Dean's cook give her an' she patted John's head: 'Lie down, John, let ma kiver you up, I's goin' ober de riber Jordan, but ma's sperit will come bumbye an' keep comp'ny wid you.'

  Having never before seen a fall of snow, our nurse's original explanation of a snow-storm suited our excitable young minds.

  In the confusion of dressing, three loud knocks at the adjoining window sent us, one and all, pell-mell into Lydia's arms, with soap, sponge, shoes, stockings, frocks, comb, and brush.

  "Massa," a voice called, " old Jerry is daid, sah; stiff as a board."

  The horse Jerry was a great favourite with the children, letting them clamber on his broad old back. He was one of a pair bought in Maine. Father surmised that Jerry had sniffed the keen cold air, and, in his efforts to get out and into it, he had, by his own force, throttled himself. All the horses were now turned out. Tom, Jerry's mate, at once laid himself down, rolling in the snow with evident pleasure. The southern bred animals, however, sought the warm stable.

  Exemplifying the force of early education, we, as all southern children, never thought of the dark side of slavery; we lived regardless of its evil consequences. Similarly, also, knitters