Chapter I: Looked Up and Whined 104 (3)

“I have told pretty much all I know about it,” continued Rambler, dodging another spark. “It happened that the young man who was out there in the woods with the young lady was the man to whom Old Grizzly had sent the Son of Ben Ali with the bale of cotton.”

“Was it really papa and mamma?” asked Buster John, turning to Aaron.

Aaron laughed and nodded his head.

“Well, they’ve never told me anything about it,” said Sweetest Susan, in an injured tone.

“Nor me either,” remarked Buster John.

“Huh!” exclaimed Drusilla, “folks don’t hafter tell dey chilluns all dey know.”

Just then a loud, but mellow voice outside cried out: “Drusilla! You Drusilla! You better answer me gal! I boun’ I’ll make you talk when I git holt er you!”

Drusilla put her head outside the door and yelled out: “Ma’am!”

“Come ’ere dis minnit, madam! Whar is you?”

“At Unk A’on’s house, mammy!”

“Tell her, Uncle Aaron says he wants to see her,” said Buster John. This Drusilla did, and presently Drusilla’s mother was heard coming along the path, breathing dire vengeance against Drusilla, and wondering what in the world Aaron wanted.

“Is that you, Jemimy?” asked Aaron. “Come in—don’t be scared.”

Jemimy came in laughing, and her smile was in queer contrast to the threats she had just made against her daughter.

“What you-all doin’ here?” she said, seeing the white children. “Unk Aaron is sho got mo’ time fer ter fool wid you dan what I got. An’ dar’s dat ol’ dog settin’ up dar big ez anybody. What you want, honey?” turning to Buster John. “Talk quick. I ain’t got no time ter th’ow way. I got ter go up yonder,” indicating the big house, “and set my mornin’s bread ter rise.” Then she turned to Aaron, “Did you call me sho’ nuff, er is deze yer chillun des runnin’ on wid der foolishness?”

Aaron nodded his head and brought out a stool for himself, giving Jemimy the chair in which he had been sitting.

“I ’clar’. I ain’t got no time fer ter be settin’ down here gwine on wid deze chillun. Time yo’ Unk A’on know much ’bout you ez what I does he won’t be settin’ down here worryin’ ’long wid you.”

Jemimy said this, laughing in an embarrassed way. She stood in awe of Aaron, but she sat down. “What you grinnin’ at, I like ter know?” she cried, turning suddenly on Drusilla, to hide her own confusion. “Whar yo’ manners?”

Aaron shook his head and Drusilla made no reply.

“Aunt Mimy,” said Buster John, “we want you to tell us about the time you went into the woods with mamma—when Uncle Aaron was a runaway, and when Mr. Gossett was running him with dogs.”

Jemimy laughed, and then she looked serious. She looked first at the children and then at Aaron. At last, her eye fell on Rambler, who had crossed the hearth and was sitting between Aaron and the chimney-jamb.

“Ef I ain’t mighty much mistaken,” said Jemimy, “dat ar very dog dar is one er de dogs what wuz runnin’ atter you.” Aaron nodded his head. “He gittin’ ol’, mon. Why, dat ar dog ain’t fur frum twenty year ol’.” Jemimy paused, but nobody said anything. Finally she went on:

“I never is ter fergit dat day, ef I wuz ter live ter be older dan ol’ man Methusalem. I speck I wuz ’bout fourteen year ol’, an’ Miss Rachel, she wuz ’bout eighteen or nineteen—some’rs ’long in dar. Soon one mornin’ she sont me out ter tell ol’ Unk Aberham fer ter saddle de pacin’ filly. She low she gwineter go out in de woods atter some wil’ flowers, an’ she says she want me ter go ’long wid ’er. So dey done saddle de filly, en put Miss Rachel on ’er, an’ den Miss Rachel, she rid up side de fence an’ tuck me on behine ’er, bein’s ez de filly done been trained to tote double. I had er basket on my arm, an’ dat ar basket sholy did worry dat hoss. She danced an’ she pranced, an’ twuz e’en’bout all I could do ter set up dar, her back wuz so slick.

“But bimeby de filly done git usen ter de basket, an’ atter dat I ax Miss Rachel whar she gwine. She say she gwine atter some wil’ flowers. I ax her wharbouts. I ’low’d dey wuz plenty right whar we wuz at. She up ’n say dey want ’nuff ter suit her. We rid on an’ rid on, an’ bimeby I say, ‘Miss Rache, you know you ain’t gwine atter no flowers.’ She ax me wharbouts she gwine den. I say, ‘You er gwine over yon’er in de big woods.’ She ax what she gwine over dar for. I say”—

Here Jemimy straightened herself up and looked at Aaron curiously.

“I ’clar ter gracious, I oughtn’t ter be tellin’ dis ’fo’ deze yer chillun,” she said.

Aaron made no reply one way or another, but seemed to be surprised, and the children protested loudly.

“You’ll run right straight an’ tell Miss Rachel!” exclaimed Jemimy, as indignantly as if the children had already told their mother.

“Why, mamma knows it already—if it’s true,” said Buster John scornfully.

“She’d run me off’n de place ef she know’d I wuz runnin’ on ’bout ol’ times right here ’fo’ you all. La! niggers is fools, mo’ speshually when dey er wimmen folks.”

“I reckon she’s about right,” said Rambler, yawning and stretching himself.

“What kinder cu’us fuss is dat dog makin’?” asked Jemimy, seeing Aaron and the children laughing. “I ain’t never see no dog make fuss like dat. You all better watch dat dog. He so ol’, dey ain’t no tellin’ when he’ll go ravin’.”

“You told mamma she was going to the big woods,” said Buster John, by way of a reminder.

“She wa’n’t yo’ ma den!” remarked Jemimy. “I say, ‘You ain’t gwine atter no flowers. You er gwine over yon’er in de big woods.’ She ax me what she gwine over dar fer. I say, ‘You er gwine dar kaze you speck you’ll strike up wid dat ar Dave Henry Wyche.’ Man, suh! She blush up twel it look like you kin see plum thoo her ears, dey got so red. Atter while she ax me who tol’ me dat, an’ I say, ‘How come my eyeballs ain’t big nuff fer me ter tell myse’f?’

“We rid ’long, an’ rid ’long, an’ den bimeby she low dat Mr. Wyche des ez good ez anybody else, ef he ain’t got ez much prop’ty ez some er de res’. I say, ‘I ain’t’ sputin’ dat, but how come you call ’im Mr. Wyche now, when you been callin’ ’im Dave Henry yever since he toted yo’ school bucket when you wa’n’t knee-high to a goslin’?’ Den she say it’s kaze dey done got older dan what dey useter wuz.

“We rid on, an’ rid on, an’ bimeby we come ter whar de big poplar grows dar in de woods. Right dar she w’o’d de filly, an’ tol’ me ter jump down, kaze right dar whar she gwine ter git some wil’ flowers. I hilt de hoss, I did, an’ she lipt down same ez a bird off’n de bush, an’ den she tuck de basket an’ went sa’nterin’ ’roun’.

“I ’low, ‘Ef you gwine ter git any flowers right roun’ here, you’ll hafter dig in de groun’ atter ’em,’ an’ she say I better be ’tendin’ ter my business, an’ hol’ dat ar filly so she won’t break loose an’ run away. Well, dat sorter brung me ’roun’, kaze I skeerd er hosses anyhow, but I hilt on ter de bridle reins, an’ I kep’ one eye on Miss Rachel, an’ de udder one on de filly. Miss Rachel, she went on thoo’ de woods, sorter hummin’ one er dem ar ol’ time chunes, an’ I foller’d ’long atter de bes’ way I could, kaze I skeer’d dat ar filly gwine ter walk up behine me an’ tromple me. Bimeby, I see somebody gwine ’long thoo de woods wid a gun. I look right good, an’ den I know’d ’twuz Marse Dave Henry Wyche.

“Well suh! you dunner how quare folks is. Miss Rachel she seed ’im ’mos’ time I did, an’ den she stopped and fetched a little squall, des like she didn’t know all de time he wuz gwine ter be dar, an’ den Marse Dave Henry, he stopped like he wuz ’stonished, an’ tuck off his hat like he ain’t seed Miss Rachel in a mont’ er Sundays. Den dey shuck han’s an’ stood dar an’ talked an’ talked. I dunner what dey say, but one time Marse Dave Henry would laugh, an’ look down at his foots, an’ den Miss Rachel, she’d snicker an’ blush. Dey wuz gwine on dat way when I feel de filly pullin’ on de reins, an’ den when I look at ’er, she had her ears sot forrerd, like she wuz lis’nin’ at sump’n. Den I hear houn’s a-bayin’, an’ des ’bout dat time I hear de bushes shakin’, an’ somebody come chargin’ ’long hard ez he kin come.

“Dis make de filly jerk back and r’ar, but I swung on ter de bridle rein, an’ holler w’oa, an’ den, bimeby, she w’oad. Well, suh, dat ar somebody chargin’ ’long wuz yo’ Unk A’on dar. De dogs was a-gainin’ on ’im eve’y jump. He seed Miss Rachel an’ Marse Dave Henry stan’in’ dar, an’ he went up ter whar dey wuz, an’ say: ‘You see what I git fer tellin’ you las’ night.’ Marse Dave Henry ’low, ‘I wish ter God I could help you!’ Miss Rachel riz on her tiptoes, an’ stretch out her han’ an’ say, ‘Take dat filly dar an’ ride her home fer me!’ She looked lots bigger dan what Marse Dave Henry did. I tell you now, when you git de Abercrombie blood stirred up you better go off som’rs twel it cool off.

“Well, Unk A’on dar, he fetched a jump er two an’ jerked de reins out’n my han’, an’ lipt on de filly’s back—behine de side-saddle, now, mind you—an’ hit her wid his heels a time er two, an’ wuz done gone ’fo’ I could git up offin’ de groun’ whar I fell at. Den Marse Dave Henry flung his gun ’cross his lef’ arm an’ put some fresh caps on it, an’ dar he hilt it.

“Bimeby, here come de dogs. Dey sailed ’roun’, an’ sailed ’roun’, but dey couldn’t go no fudder. Den here come dat ol’ Mr. Gossett. I hope he’ll go ter heaven, but I never shill b’lieve it twel I see ’im dar. He come a-follerin’ long atter de dogs. He rid up an’ tuck off his hat when he see Miss Rachel. But na’er one un um do like dey know he’s a-livin’. Miss Rachel she look at Marse Dave Henry, an’ Marse Dave Henry, he look right straight at ol’ Mr. Gossett. He sot dar on his hoss an’ look at um, an’ thump de pummel er his saddle like he studyin’ ’bout sump’n ’way off yon’er—an’ den he spied me. He lif’ his hat agin, like he tellin’ um good-by, an’ den he rid up by me. He say, ‘Gal, is you seed any nigger man runnin’ ’long by here?’ I look at Miss Rachel, an’ she drapt her eyeleds. I say, ‘Yasser.’ He say, ‘Which away wuz he gwine?’ I look at Miss Rachel, an’ she thow her eyes over ter de lef’, an’ I pint dat way an’ ’low, ‘Cross yon’er.’ He sot dar, dat ar white man did, an’ look at me n’ thump de pummel er his saddle, en den he broke out in a big laugh an’ rid on. I tell you now, ol’ Nick wa’n’t no sharper dan dat ar white man.

“Marse Dave Henry made a motion like he wuz gwine ter foller on atter ol’ Mr. Gossett, but Miss Rachel, she laid her han’ on his arm, an’ den we all walked back home. De las’ word I say ter Miss Rachel—an’ she’ll tell you so herse’f—wuz, ‘I tol’ you you wa’n’t huntin’ no flowers;’ an’ she ’low, ‘How kin anybody hunt flowers when de woods is full er runaway niggers an’ dogs?’ an’ I say, ‘You ain’t call de name er all what de woods wuz full uv;’ an’ she ’low ef I don’t hush up, she’ll be mad wid me all de balance er de week, an’ den I hushed up.”

Jemimy paused, looked all around, and then turned to the children:—

“Don’t you dast ter tell yo’ ma dat I been gwine on wid all dish yer ol’ time foolishness, kaze ef you do, she’ll take me out’n de kitchen an’ sen’ me ter de cotton patch, an’ I’m doin’ mighty well whar I is.”

Then, after telling Drusilla not to be sitting up all night, she went out.

VII.

RAMBLER, THE TRACK DOG, CONCLUDES HIS STORY.

“Where did you go when you rode the filly off?” Buster John asked Aaron.

“He came right here,” said Rambler; “I know it, because when old Grizzly whistled to me and my companions and started home, I went back, picked up the scent of the filly, and followed it here. At the lot, the Son of Ben Ali took the saddle off, hung it under the shed, and then came to this house.”

“That is so,” remarked Aaron; “an old man by the name of Abe lived here.”

“Why, I remember old Uncle Abe,” said Buster John. “He used to sit in the sun and make horse collars and baskets, and tell tales.”

“He was a great hand for that,” assented Aaron.

“I followed him here,” continued Rambler, “but found the door shut. I scratched at it and whined. The man named Abe opened it, and I came in, but I didn’t see anything of the Son of Ben Ali. But I knew he was in here. My nose told me so. I noticed some planks across the rafters—they are there yet, as you can see—and I looked up and whined. The man named Abe looked around until he found his axe. ‘So you are Gossett’s nigger dog,’ he said. ‘Well, you’ll never hunt any more niggers for him.’

“‘What is that?’ said the Son of Ben Ali from the loft.

“‘Gossett’s nigger dog,’ said the man named Abe. ‘He has followed you here. What shall I do with him?’

“‘Give him something to eat,’ answered the Son of Ben Ali, and this made me glad, for I had had a long, a hot, and a hard chase.

“‘What shall I do then?’ asked the man named Abe.

“‘Give him a drink of clean water,’ replied the Son of Ben Ali.

“‘What then?’

“‘Then let him alone.’

“Now, I was very glad of that,” continued Rambler, licking his chops, and keeping one eye on the sputtering pine knot that gave out a flickering light, “for I wanted bread, and I wanted water, and I wanted to lie down and rest somewhere, where I wouldn’t have to fight the flies.

“So the man named Abe went into his cupboard—that same cupboard there—and gave me a big chunk of ash cake, and placed a pan of water close by. Then he sat in the door and began to weave his baskets. I ate all he gave me, drank as much water as I wanted, and crept under a low bedstead that stood in the corner yonder.

“I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke I knew it was night, for I heard the man named Abe frying his bacon, and the smell of it crept under the bed where I was, and made me as hungry as I had been before I ate. After a while I heard voices. The Son of Ben Ali was asking the man named Abe if he would have to stay in the loft on the planks all night. The man named Abe said no, that he had a snug place for the Son of Ben Ali.

“Now, at that time there was a sort of closet or something near where the chimney juts out here. The man named Abe had nailed some planks across from the wall to the edge of the chimney, and in between the wall and the planks there was room enough for a man to stand up, or to lie down, if he lay on his side.

“After a while, when everything was quiet, the Son of Ben Ali clambered down the wall, but when he touched the floor he stumbled and fell over, groaning. The man named Abe was scared nearly to death, but it was nothing. I had been running hard, and I was stiff and sore. The Son of Ben Ali had been running hard, and he was stiff and sore. Besides, he had been lying on the planks in the loft in a cramped position, not daring to move, for fear he would be discovered, and this made the matter worse. But it was nothing, after all. The Son of Ben Ali raised himself, laughing, and limped into the closet.

“But he didn’t stay there long. He came out to stretch himself. This made the man named Abe uneasy, and then he became angry. But the Son of Ben Ali simply laughed at him. This made him still angrier, and he threatened to go to the white folk’s house—that’s what he called it—and tell them that a runaway negro had taken possession of his cabin. The man named Abe started out. I don’t know whether he would have gone if he had been let alone, but he was not let alone. The Son of Ben Ali seized him by the shoulders and jammed him down on his stool, and then stood over him. The man named Abe would have cried out, but the Son of Ben Ali placed his hand softly on the man’s mouth and spoke one word—‘Listen!’—but that was enough.

“The man named Abe quieted down at once. But he said he would be killed if the white people caught him hiding a runaway. At this, the Son of Ben Ali called me to him and said:—

“‘Go out and stand by the door there. When you hear any one coming, say so.’

“I limped out from under the bed the best I could, for I was stiff, and scratched at the door and asked to be let out. The man named Abe opened the door, and watched to see what I would do. I only went a few steps away from the door, and then sat down, turning my head in all directions and listening. When the man named Abe shut the door again, I went and sat on the steps. I heard the man ask the Son of Ben Ali if he was a witch, and the reply he got was that the Son of Ben Ali was witch enough not to be caught any more. Then the man named Abe wanted to know if the Son of Ben Ali was angry with him, and the answer he got was that the Son of Ben Ali was the friend of those who were his friends and was never angry with them.

“Well, they had their supper in there, for I could hear them chewing, and presently the man named Abe came to the door and gave me mine, the biggest half of a warm hoe-cake, and I don’t know that plain bread ever tasted better than it did right then.

“Not long after that I heard some one laughing and talking in the direction of the big house up yonder, and the sounds seemed to get nearer. I gave the warning, and I soon heard the Son of Ben Ali go into the closet. The voices came nearer, and I soon knew one for the Young Mistress, whom I had heard talking in the woods that very morning. The other seemed to be the voice of a child, but I heard thump—thump—thump—as of some one walking with a heavy cane. So I said to myself the Master is with them. But, no; it was the little boy, who walked with the crutches, as I soon saw. He was pleading with his sister to come to the house of the man named Abe and get him to tell a tale, such as he used to tell her when she was a little girl. She said she was too large for that, but the Little Master declared that he was small enough for both of them. And so they came to the door.

“The Young Mistress called out ‘Uncle Abe!’ and the man named Abe opened the door. He looked out cautiously, and with a frown on his face, as I could see; but when he found who it was he danced around, and opened the door as nimbly as if he had been a young man. I try to be polite myself, and sometimes I shake my tail pretty hard, but the man named Abe shook his whole body, he was so polite, and bowed nearly to the floor. And it wasn’t put on, neither, as I found out afterward, for every one on the place loved the Young Mistress and Little Master. These two went in, and I followed them. I wanted to see what would happen.

“After a while, in bustling around, one of them stepped on my foot. Of course this hurt my feelings, and I cried out.

“‘Poor doggie!’ said the Little Master. ‘Come here!’ He looked at me closely, and exclaimed:—

“‘Why, this is one of the Gossett track dogs! What is he doing here?’

“But the man named Abe said he didn’t know. Then the Young Mistress wondered if I was one of the dogs that had been running after a negro in the woods that morning, and she asked the man named Abe, looking at him hard, if he had seen a strange negro bring the filly home. But the man named Abe shook his head and fumbled with the splits which he wove into baskets.

“The Little Master said he had come to hear a story, one of those old stories about Brother Fox and Brother Rabbit. I thought to myself that if all the rabbits I had caught could talk, they would have more stories to tell than the Little Master had time to listen to. The man named Abe shuffled around and coughed and excused himself, but it was no use. I knew he wanted the Young Mistress and the Little Master to go away. He was uneasy about the Son of Ben Ali—afraid that they might discover the runaway. But nothing would satisfy the Little Master but a story, and so the man named Abe sat down and told him one. And then nothing would satisfy him but another story, and so they went on, until finally I fell asleep by the hearth. I could hear the story-telling going on in my dreams, and I remember I said to myself that if the man named Abe, or any other man, was as willing to work as he was to talk, a good many things would be different.

“While I was lying there dozing, I heard the Son of Ben Ali begin to snore. The Little Master heard it too, for he asked what the noise was. The man named Abe said it was the dog—meaning me—and then he went on with his story, moving his feet about on the floor and talking loud. I dozed off again, and was getting ready to go to sleep sure enough, for I was tired, when suddenly I heard a noise outside, as of two or three persons creeping around the cabin. I jumped up and ran to the door and smelt under it. The scent that came under the door was the scent of strange persons, and of white people at that. Just as I was about to cry out my discovery I got a whiff of another scent. I knew at once that George Gossett was with the strange persons, and that they were patroling the settlement searching for the Son of Ben Ali.

“I gave one whine, and ran under the bed, for I didn’t want young Grizzly to see me there.

“‘What is the matter with the dog?’ asked the Young Mistress, in some alarm.

“‘Sh-h!’ said the man named Abe, softly.

“Then some one struck the door with a cane, following it with a loud demand:—

“‘Hello, here! Open this door!’

“Peeping from under the bed, I watched to see what would happen. The man named Abe looked hard at the Young Mistress. She, rising, swung the chair behind her, leaning on it with her left hand. She lifted her right arm and waved it toward the door.

“‘Open it!’ she said.

“The man named Abe did as he was bid. He threw it open suddenly and stood behind it. Young Grizzly must have been leaning heavily against it, for he stumbled into the room and came near falling.

“‘What are you trying to do? Why you’—Then, looking up, he caught sight of the Young Mistress standing there with anger in her face. Young Grizzly took off his hat and bowed low. There were pieces of sticking-plaster on his forehead and cheek bones. He caught his breath and stammered: ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, I’—

“‘Uncle Abe,’ said the Young Mistress, ‘go to the house and tell father that Mr. Gossett—Mr. George Gossett—has called to see him on business, but has missed his way.’

“‘Not at all, Miss Rachel! Not at all! I beg ten thousand pardons! I was hunting a runaway nigger in the settlement, and I thought perhaps—maybe—I might find him here. A runaway nigger you know, Miss Rachel, is just as apt to be in one place as another.’ In this way spoke young Grizzly, as he backed out at the door, still bowing.

“‘Then, Uncle Abe, tell father that Mr. George Gossett believes one of his runaways is hid on his place, and wants to find him.’

“‘By no means, Miss Rachel—by no means! Not for the world. You know me too well not to know that I never intended any disrespect to you. Not the least bit in the world.’ So said young Grizzly.

“‘Who are your companions, sir?’ asked the Young Mistress, going toward the door.

“‘Just some of the neighbor boys, ma’am. I asked them to come with me. None of us meant the least harm, and certainly no disrespect to you.’ Thus spoke young Grizzly.

“By this time his companions had taken to their heels, and young Grizzly was quick to follow their example as soon as he got out of reach of the Young Mistress’s eyes. So said the man named Abe, and he was standing where he could see, having pretended to go after the White-haired Master. Never have I seen a white man more frightened than young Grizzly was.”

“What was he afraid of?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“Buckshot,” replied Aaron.

Rambler yawned and then continued:—

“The Little Master was even angrier than the Young Mistress, but he had said nothing. When the door was shut he struck the floor with his crutch and cried out:—

“‘Oh, I hope it is Aaron they are after, and I hope they will never get him.’

“‘Aaron is his name,’ said the man named Abe.

“‘He rode my filly home to-day,’ the Young Mistress said.

“‘Did he? Did he? I’ll kiss you, sis, for that!’ So spoke the Little Master, and he was as good as his word. He hopped nearly across the floor on his crutches and smacked the Young Mistress right in the mouth.

“I was wondering whether the Son of Ben Ali was sleeping all this time, so I went and sat by the closet. I could hear the Son of Ben Ali breathing very hard, and I said to myself, if he is not asleep, he is sitting in there crying.”

Sweetest Susan looked at Aaron, and her beautiful eyes were full of tears. Aaron shook his head and smiled, and then pretended to be gazing at something in the fireplace.

“He may have been laughing,” continued Rambler, licking his foreleg, where a briar had scratched it, “but as there was nothing to laugh at, that I could see, I thought maybe he was crying. But maybe he wasn’t. I’m never certain of anything until I get my nose on it, and there was a wall between the Son of Ben Ali and me.

“The Young Mistress and the Little Master were very angry, but before they could say much a very curious thing happened. The door of the closet flew open, and the Son of Ben Ali tumbled out in a heap on the floor. The Young Mistress fell back a step or two and gave a little scream, but the Little Master stood his ground and lifted his crutch in a threatening manner. But the Son of Ben Ali simply fell out of the closet in a heap. He was still stiff and sore, and by the time he had gathered himself together the Young Mistress knew who he was, and in a moment, too, the Little Master knew him.

“‘Why, it’s Aaron!’ he cried, though nobody ever told me why any one ever called the Son of Ben Ali Aaron.

“Then he seized the Son of Ben Ali’s hand, and stood leaning against him for support, as he did many and many a day and night after, as I have seen. The Little Master’s head came no higher than the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder, though the child was standing on his feet, and the Son of Ben Ali on his knees.

“The Young Mistress said: ‘If you stay here they will catch you, sure.’

“The Son of Ben Ali shook his head, and the man named Abe made this reply: ‘No, ma’am, they’ll not come back here in a hurry, after hearing what you said.’

“At this, they all laughed, except the Son of Ben Ali. ‘You may be certain,’ he said, ‘that I’ll not stay here where I can be seen. The Gossett negroes go hungry every day in the year, and for an extra pint of meal they would tell everything they know and more too. And I would be the last to blame them.’

“Then suddenly the Little Master spoke: ‘Can you climb a tree?’

“‘By this time I ought to know how,’ said the Son of Ben Ali.

“‘Then come, I’ll show you.’ So saying, the Little Master swung himself on his crutches and went hopping to the door as nimbly as if his legs were sound and whole. And the Young Mistress went too, and I followed.

“But by the time the Little Master had reached the door the Son of Ben Ali was out and before him.

“‘You are such a good rider, I’ll be your horse,’ said the Son of Ben Ali.

“He took the crutches, leaned them against the door, and swung the Little Master to his broad back, picking up the crutches, and sore as he was, pretended to be a horse. We went toward the big house.

“If you will notice, the stump of a big oak tree stands near the back porch. Before the tree was killed by fire, a big limb stretched to the little balcony above the porch. At least, it used to be so. The Little Master showed this tree and the limb and the balcony to the Son of Ben Ali, and told him that the big window that opened on the balcony was in his room. And he said to him:—

“‘Whenever at night you feel lonely and tired, climb these stairs and come to my room. Many a night I lie awake and count the stars, and I should like to have you there to talk to me. You may come to-night, if you will.’

“The Son of Ben Ali stood a moment after he had placed the Little Master on the steps and given him his crutches.

“‘Not to-night—not to-night, Little Master. But before long I’ll come. To-night I must go into the woods and find me a hiding-place.’

“So said the Son of Ben Ali, and then he seized the Little Master’s hand and kissed it, bowed to the Young Mistress, whistled for me, and went off into the woods humming an old tune that made me feel sorry.”

At this point Rambler tried to scratch between his shoulders, first with one hind foot and then with the other. Then he tried to bite the fleas, but he couldn’t reach them, being old and stiff; and he sat and whined so pitifully that Aaron rubbed his back with a pine knot. This seemed to give him great relief, so much so that, hearing the dogs barking in another part of the lot, he ran out at the door to join them, and soon the deep mellow sound of his voice was heard baying with the rest.

Shortly afterward the children bade Aaron good-night, and it wasn’t long before they were all in bed and sound asleep.

VIII.

GRUNTER, THE WHITE PIG.

When the children awoke the next morning, they found that they were as much puzzled as ever about Aaron. He had escaped from Mr. Gossett and the patrol, and he had gone into the woods; but what then? What did he do there? How long did he stay? There were a thousand questions they wanted to ask. So the next time they saw Aaron, and each time thereafter, they begged him to tell them this and tell them that, until finally he said he would take them over to the two-mile place some fine day, and show them the White Pig.

Now, on that plantation, the White Pig was a well-known character. His history was a short one, but it was enough. A good many years before that, an old sow, with thirteen pigs following her, concluded to go traveling. She refused to come up to be fed when the other hogs were called. Nobody knew the reason. The hog feeder had a beautiful song to call them with, and a strong, melodious voice with which to sing the song—a voice that could be heard from one end of the plantation to the other. But however long or however loud he might call, the old sow with her thirteen pigs kept close in the swamp.

Day after day the hog feeder called; day after day he expected them to come; and day after day they failed to come. After so long a time he went to hunt them. The old sow he found, but her pigs were missing. Some said the foxes and wildcats had caught the young ones, and some said they had gone wild in the swamp. But when the negroes planted their watermelon and goober patches, they soon found out that not all of the pigs had been caught.

Then a great effort was made to catch them. Some were run down and caught with dogs, and some were shot; but one, the most mischievous of all, was never caught. He kept out of the way of the guns, and he ripped open and killed all the dog’s that came within reach of him. He was fleet of foot and cunning. He never came out of the canebrake except at night, and he was so white and swift that the negroes came to be afraid of him. They said to themselves that a pig that could fool the white people and outrun a pack of foxhounds must be something more than a common pig.

Consequently, when they were going through the fields at dead of night and heard the White Pig crunching goobers, or chewing sugar-cane, or smacking his mouth over a yam potato, they said nothing, but slipped away as fast as they could, and left him to the enjoyment of his feast. This went on until the White Pig grew to be strong and dangerous. His tusks, or tushes, as the negroes called them, were long and sharp. He could kill as many dogs as could be piled upon him. When a catch dog was sent after him, he had a great trick of running until the dog came close enough, and then wheeling and ripping the pursuer’s hide open.

It came to pass that the sport of hunting the White Pig grew too dangerous to be indulged in, so he was left to roam in the swamps and cane-brakes with no one to molest. It happened, too, that as soon as he was left alone, the White Pig ceased to molest the watermelons, sugar-canes, sweet potatoes, goobers, and other truck, which the negroes were allowed to raise in order to make themselves a little pocket money. For a long time this was the wonder of the plantation, and yet none of the patches planted by the negroes were torn up and destroyed. Then, as everybody got used to this state of things, it ceased to be astonishing, and was no longer talked of. And some of the negroes even forgot that the White Pig was still at large, ready and willing to kill and cripple the biggest pack of dogs that could be sent against him.

This, then, was the White Pig that Aaron said he would have to show the children. Many and many a time they had been told not to go too far from the house for fear the White Pig would catch them. They had been taught to regard the White Pig as the Booger-Bear of the plantation, and they, as well as the negroes, stood greatly in awe of him, the more so as they had never seen him. It is no wonder, therefore, that they looked at one another with some astonishment when Aaron told them that he would have to take them to the two-mile place and show them the White Pig.

“I speck he’s tired of foolin’ ’long wid us,” said Drusilla, by way of explanation, “an’ I don’t blame him much, kaze you-all been a-follerin’ atter him an’ a-ding-dongin’ at him twel he done plum’ wo’ out.”

“You too!” exclaimed Buster John.

“Not me!” protested Drusilla. “No, suh! I ain’t been a-ding-dongin’ atter Unk A’on; I ben a-follerin’ atter you-all, an’ dat what Mistiss tol’ me ter do. Ef I don’t do it, she’ll make me tote water fer mammy ter wash de cloze wid, an’ I know mighty well I don’t want ter do dat.”

But Aaron, as it turned out, was not joking at all. So, one pleasant morning, when he saw them playing in the spring lot, he gave them to understand that the time had come for them to make the acquaintance of the White Pig, and Buster John said he was quite ready; but Sweetest Susan looked at Drusilla and hesitated a little. Drusilla looked at Sweetest Susan and hesitated a good deal. In fact, she drew back.

“Now, I tell you what,” she said, “you-all kin go on out dar in de swamp an’ le’ me stay here, an’ den when you come back you kin set down an’ tell me all ’bout it.”

“But mamma said you were to go with us wherever we went,” Sweetest Susan reminded her.

“Dat what she say,” replied Drusilla, “yit she ain’t tell me to go wid you out dar whar dat ar wil’ hog is, which he done cripple a hoss an’ kilt a yardful er dogs. Unk A’on kin take keer er you lots better dan what I kin.”

“Come on,” said Buster John to Sweetest Susan. “Let her stay if she wants to.”

“Yes,” remarked Aaron, “she’s big enough to go to the field now. We need her there right now.”

This didn’t suit Drusilla at all, so she ran toward the others, laughing.

“I wuz des foolin’,” she said. “I des wanted ter see what you-all gwine ter do. You may not need me, but I’m gwine anyhow, an’ ef de White Pig git me, you’ll hatter answer to Mistiss for it.”

Aaron hitched a mule to the plantation cart, and in this rig they made their way to the two-mile place. They jogged along the little-used road, the journey being enlivened by some of the queer songs that Aaron was in the habit of singing when he was in a good humor. They went nearly to the river—the Oconee—and then Aaron turned out of the plantation road, and drove straight through the woods and bushes until they came in sight of a big cane-brake. Here he stopped, took the mule from the cart, and fastened him with a long tether, so that he could browse around, and nibble the grass and bushes. Then he lifted Sweetest Susan to his broad shoulders, took Buster John by the hand, and went toward the cane-brake. He went on until he came to the damp ground near the edge of the swamp. Selecting a dry place—a little knoll higher than the rest—Aaron stationed the children there, and then went to the verge of the cane-brake. Here he paused, placed his two hands to his mouth, and gave utterance to a peculiar call, or cry. It sounded as if he were trying to say, “Goof—goof—goof!” but had smothered the noise with his hands. It was loud enough to be heard a considerable distance, however, for after he had repeated the call three times there was a reply from the farther side of the swamp, and presently the children heard a rushing, crashing sound among the canes.

Sweetest Susan crept a little closer to Buster John, and Drusilla snuggled up to Sweetest Susan. The children were not frightened, but they were filled with unknown anticipations. They knew not what to expect next. The crashing noise in the canes seemed to come nearer, and then it suddenly stopped. If it was the White Pig, he was listening.

“Come, White Pig! Come, Grunter, come!” called Aaron. “Are you then afraid?”

The crashing sound in the canes was renewed more violently than ever, and in a moment the White Pig—the terror of the plantation—burst from the reeds with a grunt that was nearly a roar.

“I dunner what they call him a pig fer,” whispered Drusilla, “he big enough for two hogs.”

And this was true. The White Pig was not fat, but he was lean and tall. He was not a pretty pig by any means. There was a vicious twinkle in his eye. His body was nearly covered with mud, and one of his ears was gone, having been torn away by dogs when he was less able to defend himself than now.

“It is long since I’ve seen you, Son of Ben Ali. Humph! No wonder! What am I?”

Aaron was about to say something, but the quick, restless eye of the White Pig caught sight of the children, and, with a snort of mingled fear and rage, he plunged into the cane-brake again. He ran a little way, as the children could see by the shaking of the reeds, and then stopped to listen. He heard nothing but the loud laugh Aaron sent after him.

“Go, then!” cried Aaron. “Go and stay. In the light here your shadow will catch you. Go, then! The White Pig that used to roam these fields with me had neither the heart nor the feet of a fox.”

Presently, when everything was quiet, the children could see by the shaking of the reeds, that the White Pig was coming out again. But this time he came no further than the edge of the swamp. Nothing could be seen except his head and shoulders, and these, with one ear gone, were not as pretty as a picture. His bristles stood up straight and stiff, from fear or anger, giving him a ragged appearance, and he opened and closed his mouth viciously.

“Humph! humph!” he said. “Who are these, Son of Ben Ali, and what trap have you set for me?”

“Some little children armed with broom straws,” laughed Aaron. “Run, White Pig, run. They will catch you, sure!”

“Boof!” cried the White Pig contemptuously. “The Spotted Sow goes about with her children squealing behind her. When did the Son of Ben Ali take up that trade? Boof!”

“When the White Pig became afraid of his shadow,” replied Aaron.

“Then why call me?” asked the White Pig.

Aaron shook his head slowly. “You are right,” he replied. “Why should I call you at night, when I have a basket of new corn scattered for you?”

“Humph!” grunted the White Pig.

“I call you because I choose to. The children yonder have seen the sign; they have been touched. They know who we are and what we are. Two belong by blood to the Little Master. That is enough for me.”

“Humph! Boof! Son of Ben Ali, it is also enough for me. Goof! I have seen them—they have seen me—what more can I do? Why should I stay? The mud in the swamp is soft and cool, but here the sun shines hot.”

“If I had a bag of corn,” suggested Aaron.

“I say nothing, Son of Ben Ali. I see no corn, and the sun shines hot. What am I to do?”

“These who have been touched and who have seen the sign are here to speak with you. They came to hear you tell of the time when you and I lived in these fields together, sleeping and hiding in the daytime, and slipping about at night.”

The White Pig’s bristles no longer stood up.

“Humph!” he grunted. “I will go wallow in the branch and wash the mud off.”

“He gone ter wash his face and hands, an’ comb his hair,” whispered Drusilla. “I speck he gwine ter come buljin’ out’n dat swamp terreckly, an’ den what we gwine do? Ef he look hard at me, I’m gwine ter fall right flat on de groun’ an’ holler loud ez I kin squall.”

“Well, if you do that,” said Buster John, “you’ll scare him, and they say that when a wild hog is scared he gets mad.”

“I do’ know what I’m gwine ter do,” remarked Drusilla, after a pause, during which she seemed to be thinking. “But I tell you now, I feel mighty quare. Ef dey wuz any tree ’roun’ here I’d climb it er break my neck tryin’. You-all is de outdoinest white chillun I ever hear tell un—comin’ way out here from yo’ pa an’ ma des ter be ripped up an’ kilt by a great big ol’ wil’ hog.”

“You know the way back to the wagon,” said Buster John. “Just go there and wait till we come. You make too much fuss anyhow.”

“Go dar by myself!” exclaimed Drusilla. “No, suh! You don’ know me! I wouldn’t go ’cross dat hill dar by myse’f, not fer ham! Uh-uh! I know I ain’t got much sense, but I got mo’ sense dan dat. I wouldn’t mo’ dan git out er sight er you-all fo’ dat ar White Pig would have me. He may be gwine ter ketch me anyhow, but ef he do I’ll be right here where you-all kin see me. You done brung me, en ef I git kilt, you-all will be de ’casion un it. Ef Marster an’ Mistiss done come ter de pass whar dey want de niggers fed ter hogs, an’ wil’ hogs at dat, den I ain’t got no complaints ter make.”

But Buster John and Sweetest Susan were paying the smallest attention to Drusilla. They were watching Aaron, and waiting for the White Pig to make his appearance again. Finally Aaron turned away from the swamp and came to the children, and presently they heard the White Pig coming up behind them, grunting and “goofing,” though not so fiercely as before.

Drusilla turned and saw him coming, and exclaimed: “Dar now! what I tell you. Ef I’d a-started to’rds dat wagon, he’d a got me sho ez de worl’. An’ he may git me yit.” She jumped up and ran towards Aaron for protection. But he shook her in a way to convince her that she would do well to keep quiet.

The White Pig had gone into the swamp, wallowed in the clean water of the branch, and had then come out and gone around half a mile to see that there was no ambuscade. He seemed to be very well satisfied, for he grunted in a good-humored way as he trotted up.

“You didn’t go far enough, White Pig,” said Aaron, “I forgot you were growing old. My men are hid behind the wagon on the other hill. Next time I will bring them nearer—even to the edge of the swamp.”

“Goof—goof!” replied the White Pig. “What would you have? I am alone. You are yonder. I am here. How do I know that the Son of Ben Ali remains the same? Humph! let me see for myself. Once you would go far to scratch my back till I fell asleep in the shade. Once you would shake down the scalybarks in the woods. Now you fling corn here and there and go your way. And sometimes many suns and moons come between the baskets of corn. Do I complain? Goof! I go into the cool swamp and tell the red squirrels that the Son of Ben Ali is sick, or away on a journey. And they say ‘Come,’ and we go into the woods beyond the swamp, and then the red squirrels shake down the scalybarks and the hickory nuts. Goof! goof!”

Aaron laid his hand on the White Pig’s back and passed it gently through the thick bristles.

“That is so,” said Aaron, “but you forget about the yams that are left buried in the field for you. You forget the goobers, the turnips, and the bank of sugar-cane. You forget the corn that is scattered here and there for you every day when the weather is cold.”

“Goof! Why should I think of them, Son of Ben Ali? Hot or cold, the long swamp is a feed trough for me. I need never come out of it. What is it to me if you come empty-handed, so you come? Do you think I have forgotten the long nights when I trotted through the woods with you? Or when I ran to the sound of your whistling? Or when I charged the hounds that were trailing you and drove them away? I was thinking only of the Son of Ben Ali. I am getting very old. My tusks are yellow, and one of them is broken. I can run, but not so swiftly as when I carried you the news of the great fire one night. No, my legs fail me.”

“You are old,” said Aaron. “Of all your kind, you are the oldest I have ever seen.”

“Goof—humph! Why not? All the rest are glad to run into the pen when they hear corn falling from the basket. They go in and eat and sleep until they are fat, and then some cold night you see the fires lit, and then, one after another you hear the fat fools in the pen squeal. Then in the morning you can see them hanging by their heels in a row. Goof! I have seen it. Hanging by their heels, their hair off, and their throats cut. Oof! It makes me shiver. I saw it when I was running about with my mother, and though I have gone hungry many a night, never did I go through a gap in the fence that was left for me, and never did I follow the rest when they went to be fed in the pen.”

All this time the White Pig, using his forefeet as pivots, turned his body first one way and then the other, watching every open space, and often pausing to listen. There was an air of wildness about him that kept the children quiet and subdued.

“These,” said Aaron, “are my friends. They shall be yours, if you choose.”

“Humph! What do they want with me?”

“We want to hear you tell about the time when Uncle Aaron was a runaway,” suggested Buster John.

“Goof! Who is Uncle Aaron?” asked the White Pig.

“Me,” said Aaron.

“Oof—oof!” cried the White Pig, scornfully. “Return to the swamp, Son of Ben Ali, where we have no such names. The paths are all there. I have kept them hard and firm. Come!”

Aaron shook his head. “It is too late,” he said. “I belong yonder; you belong here.”

“Then I’ll go where I belong. Ooft!”

“When you have pleased my friends.”

“To-morrow, Son of Ben Ali. Not now. They are too far from home. To-night, when the moon stands high, I’ll come through the long lane that has been closed, and hide in the plum thicket that has been left in the peach orchard.”

“So then,” said Aaron, “we will go. Before long I’ll come and have a race with you in the swamp.”

“Oof—ooft!” grunted the White Pig. “You shall win if you can!”

Then Aaron and the children started back to where they had left the wagon. The White Pig trotted with them a quarter of a mile or more, and then paused and sniffed the air.

“Gooft! The sun is too bright here. As for me, I travel in the dark.”