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the sunny south
FIFTH TAGE
fiction * Short Stories of the tSouth * fact
THE VICTORY OF ZALIA ROSS
Written for Hhe SUNNY SOUTH
A Story of Georgia Moonshiners by Lottie Catherine Sell
HAR'8 no doubt erbout
T that thar Easterling
bein' a revenue spy,
Kennon. I don't see
how you uns kin
b'lieve anything else.
The rest of the boys is
all satisfled on’t. I
know'd from the fust it
wam't no likely tale he
was tellln', a-sayin* he
was a writer man what
come ter the moun
tains fur his health;
an' then ’stld o' stop-
pin’ over ter the
springs whar he had
orter, come a puttin’
a tent In the woods,
an’ then goes er nosin' 'round whar he
ain’t no business. And ylt you uns wants
ter wait! ’Pears like you uns Is a tryln’
ter git him outer the way."
His companion, a mountaineer some ten
or twelve years younger, raised a pair of
troubled gray eyes from the patch of
ground he seemed to be studying.
"It ain’t him I’m thinkln’ of,” he said
slowly, "It’s the little school marm. She’s
done so much fer the like of we uns, it
’pears like goln’ agin mv own se’f to do
anything that would hurt her. She was
thar the night my baby died, and when
we uns didn’t have nothin’ ter shroud it
In, she tuk her own purty white dress an’
made Its buryin’ clothes.”
Kennon’s voice ended in a queer little
choke, and he kicked a stone out of his
path with vindictive force, as If to vent
his emotion that way.
"She ain’t like the folks here. I’ve
watched her many a time when I worked
on tother side o’ the mountain, close ter
the schoolhouse; and though she stuck it
out chipper enough, I could see she look
ed lonesome like, and her eyes alius
seemed ter me sorter sorrerful ’til East
erling come, and got ter lending her
books an’ things, an’ a walkin' with her
atter laurel and stuff. What hurts him
’il hurt her. That’s why I said what I
did ter you uns."
Old Zeke shook his head, and the cruel
lines deepened around his lips.
"1 can't help that, I ain’t fergot the
night Denman's still was raided, if you
.ins hav . I ain't forget how my boy was
shot down 'cause he showed his blood an’
wouldn’t gin in; and how so many of the
boys was tuk off, and Is a layin’ in Jail
now fur nothin' more n' less nor tryln’
ter make er livin' fur their wives an’
chlllun. An’ I ain’t fergot nuther how we
uns long o' the rest who had folks tuk
away, met in ther cave ther night arter
we uns buried po’ Haley, an’ banded our
selves into a circle an’ swore ter take the
next spy that come ter rob us of our liv
in’ back thar in the pass whar the boy
was killed an’ shoot him ter pay fer po’
Haley’s death. And now the time is
come, an’ whether you uns is thar or not,
the rest o' the boys'll be. They ain't the
ones ter ferglt their wrongs an’ back out
o' what they said they would do, fer a
little soft-heartrdness. I allow I’m more’n
surprised at you uns backin’ down.”
A dull red flush mounted to Kennon’s
face.
“You uns needn’t throw up no mo' ter
me. I’ll be thar." he said doggedly; then
he turned and walked away, leaving the
elder man alone.
Trammel watched him with lowering
brow until he was lost to sight, and with
a muttered oath he picked up the heavy
sack he had thrown on the ledge of the
rock as they met and began the slow, la
borious ascent of the mountain.
*
TWO
It was a tired face the little teacher
turned away from the old log school-
house at the foot of "Big Cedar,” as she
locked the door and prepared for her
walk home. Somehow the whole day had
been one of disappointment. She had felt
weary and listless from the beginning.
Perhaps it was because she had spent
most of the night before sitting up with
a sick woman, and want of rest had
given things their somber cast.
It was fair enough abound her. The
soft haze of autumn lay in dim translu
cent beauty over all the land; and though
It was well on toward evening, the har
vest sun shone warmly and kissed away
the hint of chill which comes to the
mountain sections even in the early days
of September. A slight breeze was stir
ring the tops of the spruce pines that
covered "Big Cedar,” and their branches
seemed to beckon her upward.
She paused a moment, and then in spite
of her tired feet, turned and walked back
from the path she had first taken, and
going over the trail, went up the steep
slope that came down to meet the rising
foot hills before her. With the steady
step of the practiced climber she soon
reached the edge of the woods that
crowned the summit, and hastening
through them, she stood still a moment
panting softly with a hand pressed over
her heart, and then with a sigh of relief
she sat down on the gnarled trunk of an
old tree twisted In the shape of a seat.
The place In Itself was bare enough.
Its only beauty was the pines, but the
view was worth the climb It took to reach
It, and the lines of weariness and care
on her face faded out as her eyes sought
the loveliness of the great blue hills. As
far as sight could reach thej- stretched
on either side of the horizon, shading
from an almost purple tint, as the dis
tance grew greater. Into softer shades of
blue and gray. Green valleys nestled at
her feet, dotted here and there with the
rude homes of the mountaineers, but
from her height there seemed no sign of
life about them, and the stillness of ut
ter solitude brooded over all.
Three years before Zalia Ross begun
her work among the rough, primitive
people of north Georgia. It was a hard
place, but her necessities had compelled
her to take It. and she had honestly
sought to do her best, and to tight away
the dreary loneliness of her own life by
seeking to sweeten and help the hard,
poverty stricken lives around her.
The work was wearing, though, and
tometimes her success and the good work
she bad done seemed so little that even
her brave spir.t grew discouraged. It
lacked but one week until the close of
the term—perhaps her last term there.*
Even then Mr. Easterling might have the
letter, saying the place his friend had
promised to get for her was hers. And
It was In the south where she was born.
As she thought of it she could almost
hear the music in the pines.
. "Miss Zalia.’’ said a voice near her;
.end with a start of surprise she sprang
to her feet. And as she faced the in
truder the color that her face lacked to
light It into beaut}’ flew to her cheeks.
“Oh,” she said, "you.” And then she
■topped, gladness and surprise fighting
tor the mastery In her face.
—t knew you’d be amazed.” said the
new-comer, regarding her with evident
tenderness, "but I found my business
could be finished in two days Instead of
four, so I came back In the hack that
went down to Gainesville from Porter
Springs this morning. I thought perhaps
you would seek your sky parlor after
School for a rest, so I came.” He paused
a moment, then said: “I found the letter
we were expecting from Douglas at
Gainesville when I reached there, and I
started to send it back by the driver,
mm 1 had promised you you should know
at the esgllest, but when I found what it
containei I kept It over until I could
bring it myself."
The glow that his coming had brought
to her face had faded cut.
“Then I failed to get the position,” she
said s'owly. “Somehow I was afraid of
that yesterday when the letter did not
come.
She tried to take it quietly, but was
worn and tired from the vigil of the
flight before; and it had meant so much
to her. A great wave of homesick lone
liness came over her, and she turned
away to hide the tears she could not
choke back.
“Zalia,” he said, “don't do that. 1
would not send the letter because I knew
it would be a disappointment to you. And
I could not stay away. Zalia ’*
"Forgive me,” she said quickly, "It is
foolish to cry. And, after all. what does
It matter if I do have to stay? What
does it matter if my life-work reaches
no higher? Why should I weary of it.
when it lies In my power to do good?
Only I have been thinking of going so
much. It has been three years since I
left the old home, and since you told me
your friend might get the school for me
back in the dear old barrens, I have been
building on It day by day.’’
The tears still trembled on her lashes,
but the steady, patient expression had
come back to her blue eyes, and she held
out her hand to him in a childish gesture
as if begging for pardon.
He took It In both his own
"Zalia," he said. "I told you I could
rot stay away, but I did not tell you
why I wanted to be here and help you.
To me you are the truest, bravest little
woman on earth. I love you, Zalia. When
I go back home let me take you, not as
a teacher, but as my wife”
"You—you love me.” she faltered.
"I have done so for a long time.” he an
swered, "but never so well as now. Dear
little mountain laurel, your bravery and
patience have taught me many a lesson
since I found you here among the hills.
Will you let me teach you the sweetest
lesson of life; let me teach you to love
me?"
The supreme happiness of the moment
raised her above all shyness.
"I love you now,” she said simply. *T
think I have always loved you, but I
never dreamed you cared for me. I
thought you were good and kind because
you found me friendless and alone, and
I tried not to care for you more than I
ought. I tried, but—” the traitor lips be
gun to quiver again, and Easterling bent
and kissed them—ana then:
"Don’t flatter,” he said lightly, to hide
the depths of his feeling, "if you liked me
at first it was because I told you I came
from the plney woods; after this 1 shall
always love them better.”
She shook her head, but he only laugh
ed. and then he sat down by her side and
they talked as only lovers can talk, until
before either of them knew it the sun
had slipped down behind the mountain
and the long purple shadows were creep
ing around them. It was twilight when
they parted at the cabin she called home.
"I wish you didn't have so far to go,”
she said wistfully. “It Is quite three
miles over the other side of Blood, where
you have your tent. I shouldn't have let
you come all the way down with me.”
"Yes,” said Easterling, teaslngly, "you
have a lot to answer for, and if the
moonshiners get me going over Blood I’ll
charge it up to you.”
To his surprise Zalia's face paled a lit
tle at his jesting words.
"I wish you didn’t have to go that way,
sure enough," she said, a trifle anxiously.
"I don’t suppose they would do you any
harm, but those people over there are
different from the ones on this side, and
there has been bitter feeling among them
since young Trammel was killed, when
the men found the still In the closed pass
last year. I have known something of
the people over there since I convinced
them my school would do their children
good. Only a few came at first, but now
I have a good many. The brother of the
boy the revenues killed is among the num
ber.”
"And have you been going over there
among these people?” asked Easterling
curiously.
"Yes,” she answered, "when some of
them were sick and needed help and it
was my duty. But do you know, half
apologetically, "many a time I've been
afraid, though I don’t believe one of
them would harm me now. They are
rough and wicked, but they have hearts
If you can find them.”
Her lover looked at her with Ineffable
tenderness In Ms eyes and voice.
"Dear little missionary,” he said softly,
“I could almost trust you to find the
heart of a stone.”
Then he kissed her good night and Zalia
went Into the little old cabin that, like
all the rest of the world, had suddenly
become glorified.
As she ate her supper of bread and
milk Mrs. Grendal, the old lady she
boarded with, looked at her radiant face
a little curiously and told her she was
as rosy as the laurel flowers when thev
first begun to blow. But Zalia only shook
her head merrily, and slipped outside on
the doorstep; and as the good dame went
off to her slumbers, she sat there peaceful
and still, too happy to leave the moon
light and her fancies.
She did not know how long she had
been there dreaming, but she was sum
moned to the world of reality again b'y
hearing her own name called in a cau
tious voice. As she answered a tall, un
gainly boy crossed over from the right
of the path where the undergrowth wa§
densest. He hesitated a moment to as
sure himself she was alone; then he
crossed the lighted space, and with hur
ried steps came toward her. At first she
did not know him. but as he reached
the doorway she saw it was Yorick Tram
mel. In the moonlight she could see that
his face was pale, and though she had
never noticed the resemblance before,
there was a set, determined look about
his lips that reminded her curiously of
his father.
“I had ter come ter you uns and tell.”
he said, without waiting for her to speak.
“If they know’d It they'd shoot me long
o’ him. But I know’d you uns liked him.
and I couldn’t ferget all you uns done
fer me. They're goln’ thar ter night,
dad and the rest what swore ter get even
fer Haley’s death; and they’re goin' ter
take him to the closed pass whar Den
man’s folks wouldn’t be tuk and the rev
enues fired into him and killed po’ Ha
ley."
The boy called no name, but Zalia
needed none. Too well she knew he
meant Easterling. Her heart grew cold
with horror.
“But why, Yorick. why should they
want to kill him? He’s done them no
harm.”
“They think he’s one of them revenue
spies, and they have swore the next one
come thar nosin' eroun’ whar he bad no
business they wuz goln’ ter shoot him.
I have been er hidin’ out and er bearin’
In more'n two weeks, and many a time 1 1
started ter tell you uns, but I d&resent,
but ternlght when I hearn ’em say his
time had come, I could'nt bear It and I
slipped here 'fore they know'd I was
gone.”
Zalia wrung her hands.
"Oh, Yorick,” she said, "If you had
only told me today.”
The boy looked piteously Into her face.
“I did try,” he said in a frightened
whisper, "but I dassent. Thar wuz dad
and the rest, and I know’d they’d be tuk
off, of even if they warn’t they'd beat me
black and blue fur tellln’ you uns. You
uns dunno"
But Zalia did know; and this knowledge
added to her fears. She knew the sympa
thy of the community. If not outwardly
expressed, was silently shown toward
the unfortunate moonshiners, while the
revenue officer was looked upon as an
Ishmael, and the Informer or detective
was fortunate If he was not treated to a
severe castigation or even perforated with
buckshots or bullets.
But the precious moments were liv
ing.
"Yorick," she said with sudden resolu
tion, "would you be afraid to go with
me across Blood to where Mr. Easterling
has his tent? I don't mean for you to
go all the way. for no one shall know
who told me they were going there to
night; and you must not tell It either,
Yorick—for your own sake; do you under
stand?”
The boy nodded.
"Come," she said, "you were a brave
boy to tell me this, Yorick; God bless you
for It.”
And as they started on the Journey that
might end In she knew not what, she
added with a sob In her voice:
"God be pitiful to us both."
*
THREE
Easterling was sitting on a camp stool
Just outside his tent, smoking what he
called his meditating pipe. The hour was
late; but then he always kept late hours.
Not even sleeping in the woods had
taught him to seek nature’s sweet restorer
early.
He knew the war between the revenues
and the workers up of the corn had been
raging pretty fiercely In and around the
north Georgia mountains, and had heard
of the “clique” or 'band who had sworn
to avenge young Haley’s death. One of
the maxims of his careless Bohemian life
had been to let the affairs of other people
alone when he didn’t want them for his
newspaper, and though, as Trammel aver
red, he had been nosing around among
the hills all the summer, he had been
searching for health, not stills.
He had just about finished his smoke
when a slight noise not far away caused
him to look around. Coming across the
patch of moonlight near the tent, where
the trees were thinner and the shadows
not so dense, he saw the figure of a man
slip by. At first he thought It was one
of the mountaineers who perhaps wanted
something of him. and started to call oi£,
but following quickly in the wake of the
figure came another and still another, un
til ten had passed through the lighted
space across to the shadow on the other
side. It was quite evident that the men,
whoever they were, were planning some
manner of attack upon himself. Perhaps
at last the prophecy of his friends was
about to be fulfilled, his carelessness of
how things appeared to others was about
to get him into trouble. Well, at any
rate, it was too late to care then. He
had a pistol or two stored away Inside;
he did not know exactly where, though,
and besides one against so many could
accomplish nothing by menace, and it
was just as well he was unarmed.
He didn't know what he intended to do
or say when he started down the little
path toward them, but it was rather un
comfortable waiting, so he went. He
wasn’t left in ignorance long. Trammel
stepped out of the bushes before he had
walked ten paces from the tent, and his
followers seemed to swarm up on every
side. Easterling stopped.
"Well, boys,” he said, ‘Igood evening.
I hardly expected a visit Trom so many
of you at once."
There was something In the calm au
dacity of the speech and the utter lack
of fear In his face that for a moment or
two the man only proclaimed a surprised
isllence. Trammel's harsh voice broke
the stillness:
"I allow as how you'uns 'll be past
bein’ surprised wten we'uns git through
showln’ you’uns how revenua sneaks is
treated here,” he said soughly. "You'-
r.ns can Just mosy ’long ahead of we’uns
ter the closed pass whar you’uns wuz er
sneakin’ the last time I followed yer, and
I allow when we’uns git you’uns thar a
dose o’ cold lead’ll stop yer prowlin’ fer
a while, at any rate.”
Easterling looked the man straight In
the face. There was no mistaking the
threat that lay In his words, and the
hard, evil glitter in his eyes.
"No,’’ he answered, slowly and dis
tinctly, "I think I’ll stay in the tent to
night. I hadn’t plarned to go elsewhere,
and I don't think I shall.”
Waal, I kalkerlate as how yer will
go,” cried Trammel, growing angry, “and
I allow thar’s no use wastin’ words.
Yerive got to go with we’uns peaceably
or we’uns'li take yer tliar. Yer have
yer choice.”
don’t choose to do either,” Easter
ling answered, a stubborn note creeping
into his usually careless voice. "I Intend
to stay right here. In the beginning I
suppose you men only Intended to beat
the government out of a tittle liquor; that
is bad enough, but you have the cxou30
of making bread for your wives and chil
dren. But there Is no excuse to God or
man for cold-blooded murder!”
Murder! The word had an ugly sound.
The men looked questloningly from one
to another, and almost unconsciously
some of them drew back.
Trammel was one of the few In whom
there was no wavering. The face of his
dead boy seeitjed to urge him on.
"Close in. boys. This is the first work,
o’ the band. Let hit be done up right.
Thar’s got ter be an example, and ez this
here chap Is the fust spy, we’uns ’ll show
ther others what's er cornin’ ter them.
Remember, It’s one uv ther crowd that
killed po’ Haley, and that’s er tryln 1 ter
tek the bread outeT yer wives and chil-
Contlnuad oxx Seventh Page
THE LARGEST AND COSTLIEST WHARF IN THE
SOUTH IS AT PENSACOLA Written for THE SUNNY SOUTH
The Tremendous New Wharf at Peniacola, Fie
THE STORY OF TWO FAITHFUL
SLAVES Written for THE SUNNY SOUTH
HE mammoth wharf and
warehouse of the Louis
ville and Nashville rail
road in Pensacola, Fla.,
is probably the largest
and most costly building
of its kind in the south,
and compares favorably
with, any In the United
, States, 5,000,000 feet of
lumber and timber, ex
clusive of the founda
tion being required in Its
construction.
For the foundation of
the Com mandancia
street wharf, 6.000 piling
o. .. varying from seventy to
eighty feet were driven, extending from
the shore to a .point south into the bay
1,337 feet In length by 128 feet wide. These
nlllng are all creosoted. The cost of this
material alone, together with the placing
of same into position, was $126,000, and
was by far the biggest job in connection
with the work, three Improved steam
drivers being used in doing the work.
Upon this foundation was constructed
the two-story warehouse, which is 1,227
feet in length by 108 feet wide, and capa
ble of storing 500 cars of freight.
Five railroad tracks have been placed
in the warehouse, two of which are ele
vated and lead to the second story apart
ments of the building, while three on the
bottom floor lead into and run the entire
length of the structure.
In all there is a total of a mile and a
half of railway tracks in the warehouse
alone, exclusive of the elevators, tram
ways, etc. In one panel of this immense
structure there are 170 pieces of timber,
ranging in length from five to fifty-four
feet, and from 8x8 to 16x16 inches in diam
eter; 6,500 feet of rabbeted flooring; 3,500
feet of edged flooring: 1,600 feet of roof
sheathing and 7,000 feet of bridging. There
are 100 of these panels in the
building, or in round numbers
there are 17,000 pieces of timber, 65,000
feet of rabbeted flooring, 35,000 feet
of edged flooring, 16,000 feet of rough
sheathing and 70,000 feet of bridging,
which were used in the construction of
the entire warehouse. For the roof of the
building tar was spread on the boarding
while hot, after which gravel to the thick
ness of two Inches was spread, making
a substantial and fireproof covering.
Leading to this warehouse Is what la
known as Commandancla street wharf,
which Itself extends oVer a half mile
from the bay shore, being built of solid
stone and earth and surrounded on each
side by a slip of water about 500 feet wide.
On this wharf, which is itself about 200
'feet wide, there is being laid twelve
switch tracks which branch from the
main line at a point about a quarter of
a mile from the head of the wharf. The
estimated length of all these tracks com
bined, including those in the warehouse,
is seven arid one-half miles, which Is in
Itself a good sized storage yard.
For the protection of the Commandan-
cia wharf from fire, a perfect tire system
with all modern appliances, such as chem
ical extinguishers, hose, alarms, etc., have
been arranged with' organized fire com
panies to operate them. These companies
are better equipped and organized than
some of the companies in small cities.
The wharf and warehouse is lighted
with 500 Incandescent and arc lights, some
of which will be attached to long cables
capable of reaching to the hold of a ves
sel which Is loading at night, which ts
often tiie case. -
A SOUTHERN HOME BEFORE AND AFTER THE
WAR ^ TWO PICTURES Written for THE SUNNY SOUTH
By Jonas Jutton
LW« M'Lsajhlin Hon BF M*L»tztfhlln Sol M’Lsu^hlin
OU are free,” said Joslah
T. McLaughlin, of Meri
wether county, to his
slaves, when the clash of
the civil strife had hard
ly ceased. Perhaps he
wondered, as he said the
words, how his untrained
self and sons would carry
on the work of the place.
None of the servants spoke
as they turned away, for
they understood that the
strife between the states
had devastated their mas
ter's holdings.
On the following day. upon arising, Mr.
McLaughlin found that many of the ac
customed chores had been accomplished,
and it was not many minutes before Sol
and Llge. two slaves, unswerving In their
fidelity, despite the scurvy trick fate had
played their owner, stood before the as
tonished man.
“Marse Joe,” said f Sol, "roe an* Llge
here done got our head sot on stayin’
here. We belongs ter yer. Marse Joe,
an’ we gwineter stay wid yer.”
Regarding the matter as settled beyond
appeal, they turned once more to their
usual labor. And was “Marse Joe” to be
blamed If in that hard and uncertain af
termath of a bitter defeat he wept at the
evidence of the enduring faithfulness and
genuine affection of his two slaves? And
is the son of that “Marse Joe” culpable If
he, grateful through the years that have
dimmed the memory and gratitude of
many, insists that these two men—Sol,
aged eighty-six. and Llge, aged seventy—
shall find no need unfilled and shall never
want for aught?
Just a few days ago Sol and Llge,
knowing that they were drawing toward
the conclusion of life, asked their young
“marster,” for so they called him, to have
“his plcter took 'long wld ’em.” And ha
was pleased to grant their wish, and the
result is presented. It was from Hon.
B. F. McLaughlin, of Meriwether county,
that the photograph for-the reproduction
was secured.
"They have been with our family al
ways," he said. "They refused to leave
my father when slavery ceased and now
when age has enslaved their agility and
waning powers, they are receiving their
reward.
"Only a few days ago some of Sol’s
family—both have large families of
grandchildren and great-grandchildren—
tried to get them to leave.
’’ 'You belong to Marse Ben and can't
leave him,’ said a grandchild, sarcas
tically.
” ‘Uh—■uh, nigger.’ replied Sol, ’Marse
Ben b’longs ter me; dat why I can’t
leave him.’
"And so I do,” added Mr. McLaughlin.
"I wish,” he continued, "that I could
tell you of all those two faithful fellows
have done, and all the happy incidents
they are connected with. They have al
ways been trusted more than I would
trust many a white man. One of them
slept in the store and one in the tanyard
until they grew too old, and I will vouch
for their honesty.
"By the way, Lige was my older sis
ter's nurse. One day he decided that
she was entirely too small, so to remedy
It he planted her In the ground almost to
her shoulders. It is history among the
negroes that she began to grow rapidly
from that day.
"Sol, who is eighty-six, was much of a
man at log-rollings and whenever the
neighbors wanted help they sent for him.
He married a slave of a neighbor and his
wife was taken to Alabama, though my
father made every effort to buy the wo
man. However, every quarter—three
months—Sol was given permission to visit
his wife, and when freedom was declared
he went to Alabama after her.
"Sol and Llge are as true as steel. If
every negro was as honest and faithful
as that pair, you wouldn’t have to flu so
many columns with discussions of the
race problem.”
T has been many years
since I saw in dear old
Tennessee this first pic
ture. with its brilliant
colors and gilded frame,
but it remains as fresh
in my memory as seen
yesterday, and often do
I view it again in
pleasant retrospection.
But after gazing Inter
estedly and entrancing-
Iv awhile at every de
tail of the pleasing pic
ture. it gradually as
sumes a different shape;
the brilliant colors give
place to somber hues;
shadows take the place of sunshine: deso
lation is written across its face, and over
It all death flutters her gloorilv pinions,
and sick at heart I turn . shudderingly
away. ,
I had a boy friend, a school chum. I will
call him “Cecil Clare.” whom I frequent
ly visited at his country home, some ten
miles from the village where we attended
school together. We were like Jonathan
and David, and in those happy school
days life flowed peacefully and Joyously
for both of us. my father being a pros
perous merchant in the village, while the
father of my friend was a wealthy plan
ter. whose broad and fertile fields were
tilled by a hundred slaves. The two pic
tures are of Cecil’s home and people.
Every Friday evening Tom. a colored
boy about Cecil's age. would come for his
young master in a handsome light buggy,
one of the best Gosling, the then famous
manufacturer, could make, drawn by a
spirited but docile bay. that had no
trouble In clipping a mile In three min
utes: though my friend, who was kind
and gentle to everything and everybody,
never drove her at that gait, except for
a short distance, merely to show some ad
miring friend what she could do. When
I was to go home with Cecil and remain
until Monday morning, which I frequent
ly did, then instead of the light buggy
and spirited bay. came the family car
riage drawn by old Selim and Gilpin, two
large and sleek dappled grays. Old
"Uncle” William, who had been In the
family almost since he could remember,
would be on the box. with Tom. acting
as footman, perched happily on the seat
behind, ready at a moment’s notice to
spring down and unfola the carpeted
steps, which came within a few Inches of
the ground. How well I remember that
carriage with Its luxurious curtains and
cushions arid its easy, lazy swing. When
nestling comfortably on the inside with
my friend I felt that I would be satisfied
to go on thus forever and forever.
Mr. Clare's family was a large one, Ce
cil having four brothers and two sisters.
During the time I was a frequent visitor
to their home the two young ladles were
off at hoarding school, two of the boys
were attending college, while the other
two. who had graduated, were conducting
a prosperous mercantile business in my
home town, on capital provided by their
father.
Cedi’s home was a large two-story
frame building, painted white with green
blinds and trimmings. In front ran a
veranda the entire length of the building,
extending upward to the eaves and sup
ported by large Corinthian columns. To
the house proper there were eight rooms,
ail handsomely furnished, besides there
was an L. in which were the dining room
and several others, used for different pur
poses. As with most ante-bellum houses,
the kitchen was in the yard some thirty
or forty feet from the dining room. Com
mencing with the front veranda was a
green, grassy nlat about sixty feet wide,
on which grew several large trees, pro
ducing abundant shade. In front of this
plat was a large flower garden, in which
Mrs. Clare, in the spring and summer,
almost constantly kept one of the slaves
busy tending her floral treasures, many
of which, when winter came, were placed
a wav in a well-appointed hothouse. From
the flower yard a gently-sloping, grassy
lawn led to the "big gate” on the public
road several hundred yards away. This
pretty little nark was thickly studded
with giant oaks, some of which had
bravely defied the storms of centuries.
When I accompanied my friend home
and the carriage turned, from the public
road into the driveway of the lawn we
could always see every member of the
family at home come out on the great
veranda to receive us, and I was accord
ed a welcome almost aa hearty as the
son and brother.
Of summer evenings, just as the sun
smilingly bade us adieu, a long line of
slaves could be seen wending their way
to the quarters, some on foot, with hoes
over their shoulders, while others would
!be riding the plow mules. Some old
darky would start »“» a plaintive planta
tion melody In Which all would loin In
perfect accord and the sweet vocal
strains would go reverberating over hill
and dale, while the balmy, perfumed
laden zephyrs rustled the leaves in re
fined and appreciative appdause.
On summer nights when the moon was
shining brightly the crickets chirped In
the grass and the whippoorwill's weird
notes came from the deep dark woods,
Cecil and I would go down to the quar
ters and watch the merry dance to the
not over-melodious twang of "Uncle”
Ury’s banjo.
I spent several Christmases with Ce
cil when every member of the family
would gather in the magnificent library
around the Yule log burning brightly in
the great fireplace, and It seemed to me
that if there was a paradise on this earth
it was the Clare home. There were wealth,
refinement, culture, peace and plenty; a lid
while happiness reigned in the "big
house," joy held full sway In the quar
ters and In the overseer’s home, for no
one was forgotten at this happy holiday
time.
When the children returned from col
lege a finishing touch was given to their
education by several months of travel—
an European tour, if they desired It.
While they were high-strung and aristo
cratic. they were kind, brave and chival
rous, possessing every attribute of the
true lady and gentleman.
During the time I was a frequent visitor
to the Clare home, no thought of want,
poverty and distress ever found lodg
ment In the brain of a single member.
An Ideal home bathed in sunshine and
happiness with not a sign of shadow rr
sorrow.
This is the first picture, poorly painted,
but it needs no master hand to present the
other in its somber, dingy colors.
Several years ago, I visited the old town
where I was bom and reared, and. nat
urally, a desire possessed me to see the
old Clare home where I had spent so
many pleasant hours. I hired a horse
and buggy at the village stable, and wish
ing no obtrusion upon my thoughts, went
alone.
As I turned from the highway toward the
"big house” no great gate barred my way;
it had long since disappeared and only
the large posts with their rounded tops
marked its site, and they were fast rot
ting away. No pleasing lawn greeted my
vision. The vandal’s hand had laid low
the mighty giants of the forest and sev
eral of them had but latejy succumbed to
the keen edge of the ax. as proved by
several piles of new rails. Briars and
weeds grew in dense rank patches here
and there instead of blue grass, and in
place of several fine horses capering over
the velvety, well-kept lawn as of yore, a
half dozen razor-backs rooted happily
among the weeds and briars. As I drew
near the house I noticed that the flower
garden had disappeared, together with
every vestige of fence that had sur
rounded it. The house was In rack and
ruin. The paint had long since washed
from it; the porch had partly rotted away
and one of the handsome columns lay
prostrate on the ground. Most of the
glass had been broken from the windows,
and in the place of some of them were
stuck rags and pieces of quilts, which
indicated that it was occupied. My pres
ence attracted the attention of several
lean, lazy-Iooking hounds, the barking of
which brought a colored woman to the
door, but she was not one of the old
bandana-headed servants I had known In
the happy past. I soon satisfled her cu
riosity as to why I was there, and asked
permission, which was readily granted, to
visit the rooms In which I had spent so
many pleasant hours. With almost re
ligious reverence I went into every room,
and everywhere was the sign of decay.
What had once been an elegant home was
now scarcely good enough for the poor,
Ignorant colored family that occupied it.
In what had once been the library. I
stood lost In thought, gazing at the great
open fireplace, from which many bricks
had fallen. I pictured It In the long ago
throwing its genial warmth over youth,
beauty, refinement and happiness sur
rounded by every luxury. Tears sprang
unbidden to my eyes, and with a feeling
of unutterable sadness and oppression I
hurried out into the air for relief. I
looked abroad, but no pleasing sight
greeted my view. A field of fourteen hun
dred, acres, fertile and prolific when I first
knew It. bringing annually a small for
tune In cotton and corn, was now almost
too poor on which to raise a fuss. Hero
and there over the broad domain I could
see ten or fifteen acres In slckly-looking
com and cotton, just springing from the
ground, while the rest had grown up in
broom sedge and great red gullies gaped
like rapacious monsters in every direc
tion.
I visited the cemetery, no longer sur
rounded by a neat, well kept fence. I
found but four graves; those of the first
two children to pass away, by whose side
slept the mother and father, as 1 learned
from the moss-grown headstones. Where
were the other members of the family?
After the war came on prosperity gave
place to poverty, the fine plantation
passed into stranger’s hands, and when
Cecil died a few years later he was laid
to rest in the village cemetery. He had
no right to a place beside his loved ones
gone before, tor the graveyard, wee the,
property of another; and it was better so,
for his last resting place in the village
cemetery would not be lost. The .other
members of the happy scenes of his boy
hood and young manhood were battling
bravely with the rude, rough world for
a living.
These two pictures, one pleasing, the
other sad, are common In the south, and
causes me to exclaim with the preacher:
‘All is vanity and vexation of spirit.”
Sob Cushion.*" 11
Squires:
■ e
18xtt laches,
stamped wtth
choice dectfns
on new art cloth la latest
rich shades. These cnahiea
coven an all the race. To
Introduce we will send Coe
postpaid to any address oa
receipt ofslxS-csnf, sis Bjgfcj
CO.. COLUMBIA
C. CLARK, T. P. A.,
Chattanooga, Term.
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Write for our Resort Pamphlet.
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Southern Passenger Agent. No. • N.
Pryor St., Atlanta, Ga.
E. p. TURNER, Gen’l Passenger and
Freight Agent, Dallas, Texas.
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