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the FLOWERS COUECTI BRIARFIILLD, Broad Manorial Domain of Jefferson Davis •©•♦♦•••••«•••*•• ©•••©♦< '*©•••© •••©•••©•♦• ©•♦•©••• ©»*•©••• | .©.•.©••.©.•.©.t ©•••o • © • ••• © ••• • © Wrti-*en ; By HELEN GRAY. CAe Sonny South i EH IT A PS some da y pilgrim- apos to ’’Briorflald” will bo as much tho vogue as they now .are to Mt. Vernon or to Jamestown, for here Jefferson Davis lived the life of a southern planter, reveling: in ills magnificent library, rkllng out over his boundless cotton fields, be loved of his slaves, as those on the place testify to this day. In ante-bellum times TT. ? southern planter lived like an Eng lish lord, and the old negroes say Brier- field is “’mighty changed." Then there was a beautiful flower garden. In which every variety of rose grew, the pride of Mrs. Davis, who is a great flower lover. The Cherokee rose flourished in all its magnificent splendor. There are beauti ful clumps of It yet to be seen. The negro quarters were kept in perfect or der. Each slave had a certain work to perform. One went a-tlshing and anoth er a-hunting. If a deer was killed, some of it found its way to the quarters. The hands on the plantation fed on fresh fish and game like the white folks did. The vegetable garden was immense and all the surplus vegetables were sent to the mess house, where the food of the ne groes was cooked in a great big oveu Each negro had the privilege of having a kitchen and flower garden around his cabin, and the smart ones always availed themselves of this privilege. They had their peach trees and fig trees and raised “water millions” as many as they pleas ed. Sweet potatoes were fed them in abundance. They were never restricted in the gathering of pecans, which they would often sell to the white people. 'Ola Uncle Ned," Slave of Hon. Jefferson Davis, Still Living on Brierfield Plantation. With all due respect to Booker Wash ington, who, in his “Up from Slavery,” condones his mother's stealing chickens for her children, it was a sorry planta tion when every industrious negro could not have his own poultry yard. Mississippi has been called the home of princely plantations. Some idea of the ideal life on these vast estates In a.nte- bedum days can be had even now. When one has busked a day or two beneath the smiling sun of Brierfield, listened to its mocking birds and gazed over its fields of fleecy cotton, ho feels somewhat as did Ulysses and his followers when they reached the land of the lotus-eaters— serenely content, blissfully oblivious to the outer world. Brierfield plantation lies to the south of Vicksburg, some twenty miles, on an is land known as Davis Bend. It fronts a very beautiful lake called Palmyra lake, ■which Is twenty-five miles in circumfer ence. one of the many lakes formed by a Mississippi cut-off. There are four large plantations on the island. -The Uovell plantation. whch boasts the greatest number of acres; "Hurricane,” to the right of "Brierfield,” formerly the home of Mr. Joe Davis, and "Ursula,” the county convict farm, which is con tiguous on the other side. "Brierfield.” which is owned by Mrs. Davis and man aged for her by Mr. Anto-inne Couviilon. is composed of 2.380 acres, some of it timber land. It is in a fine state of cul tivation. You should see Palmyra lake at sun set, as I did. The isteamer Elk, captain ed by a descendant of the famous Verger family of Mississippi, reached Davis landing as the sun, a great ball of fire, was sinking behind the fringe of brown trees that encircle It. It was high water time, and the cotton outside the levee ap peared growing out of the water. In the center of the lake Is a bit of a.n island,, near which is a sunken gunboat, sunk by the federals when they withdrew from" Hurricane and Brierfield. which were used by them as hospitals during the siege of Vicksburg. Many federal sol diers are buried at Hurricane outside levee., whirls wvis c-ai'rd by *hcm the c,>; rail. A few years ago. when work wr s being done along here, S500 was dug up. It had probably been bidden in the. belt , of some soldier where he was buried. Brierfield house was built in IS-’e or l£47. Mr. Davis, who was congress man. and three times senator from Mississippi, spent much of liis time in Washington, but out of every vea.r a f- w months were spent at Brierfield. BROAD SCALE EVERYWHERE. The house Is typical of plantation homes. A very wide hall runs through the center, on either side of which are gioat rooms with very high ceilings, and doors so tall as to make you won der. These rooms in return are flank ed bv other rooms. In front of the house is a beautiful grove of live oaks and pecan trees, gar landed in moss and mistletoes. Some of the trees on the place were planted by Mrs. Davis, who has always been fond of Brierfield. Two pir.e saplings, which she brought from South Carolina, nr.w stand, slim and graceful at the right of the house; and an oak tree at the left sprang from a little acorn that the once held in her hand. Hospitality? You don’t know what it is until you have been on a Mississippi plantation. What wonder that there are no carpets of velvet or curtains of silk. You. rich friend, would be without yours were you as generous! There, are few things more beautiful than a field of biooming cotton. Just mount same gentle steed, on a balmy afternoon, as I did. and ride over Brier- 1 eld plantation, stopping h»-ro and there, now and then, to converse with a little group of pickers who are gathering the fleecy staple into the bags suspended from their shoulders. All about you is a sea of cotton. Nothing obstructs the horizon save the fringe of brown trees away in the distance. You are fascinated by the vastness. The warm sun brings out your good nature; the birds are singing; your companion, the lovely daughter of the house, makes the most unselfish of hostesses, you feel thrice thankful you are living. Don i. forget the cotton gin. for you hardly know the real beauty of cotton until you have seen it rolling from the condenser, snowy and beautiful and sej>- araied from the cotton seed. Your gown, perhaps, may suffer from the contact ot too much cotton, but you forget it as . -'U watch that “nigger” literally bur inf. h asieH beneath a snowy mas|~ wb'Y, ’ ho carries to the press. Sometimes when the steam dies down the gin whistle is heard in the dead of night, when the old negroes think it is the spirit of “massa.” They have been heard to say: “Dar goes do whistle! Massa Jeff sut- teniy is worritin’ ’bout something.” Perhaps, you will be invited to a “chase” on the convict farm, during your visit to Brierfield. The day is fair, the horses ready, the bloodhounds free, the darky in the tree. He enjoys the fun as much as you do. THE OLD GUARD. When night comes, perhaps, “John Graham.” guitar in hand, will drop in and charm the family circle with ’"The Spanish Fandango” or “Black Annie." Or, perhaps, “Uncle George Green." wh > wishes he were a slave again, will hap pen in to pay his respects. Uncle Georg-- lias a line face, and manners to match. He was born on Hurricane- plantation when Brierfield was put up. “Then 1 had somebody to take k- - r of me,” he says; •C’now I nave to work like the mischief. Yes, I wish I were back in those days. I never had noth ing to complain of. No better man ever lived than Massa Jeff." “Bloodhounds? Were there any. Uncle George?” “No. marm; whoever tells that tells a darned lie.’’ “i.ncie Ned” is another picturesque character. He once was a slave, of “Massa Jeff,” and proud he is of it. He '•■i;i tell you that he feels right smart lonely sometimes when he think= of all those gone before. Ho will Tell you. too. of the time when he got in to a fight with a yankee soldier, when he was taken into service., because the soldier told him they were going to ’ ».ang Jeff Davis.” I licit: Ned is feeling right “po’ly” now. and it rnay not be long before hi? time will mine to “go where the good mg- I'-rhaps. some old negro On the place wiii whisper to you that in war times ’Massa Jeff's” picture was taken out of the house, placed on a fence and ri-idled with bullets. Some of the negroes have right marvel ous names. Vlbert Sidney Johnson • ado my fire in the morning. George ” asn- ington Abraham Lincoln Napoleon Bona parte works in the plantation store, and Marina Anne Davis is as neat a. little pickaninny us you ever saw. ’Brierfield' Plantation, Home of Hon. Jefferson Davis. Now Ownefl ay Mrs. Davis. Chronicles Paul Yclvcrton, Adventurer Y ja i 11 ft Being TKird o/ a Series of Eight Short Stories, Each Complete, Yet All U* M.J5&.M- V V-w » V A Wr W ^ ^ Jia. A A Written Around One Character By DEREK VANE. THE COST OF A. JEST. KFORE Paul Yelverton made his great fortune be had many curious experi ences. One of the most curious occurred in Sou’i.l Africa. At the time he possessed only a comparatively small sum of money, but Ik- was known in the mining camp where he was working as a lucky man and a man of judgment and influence. Hi- was sitting at the door of 'nls tent late one evening, smoking a pipe, when his attention was roused by a peculiar noise close at hand. He lis tened intently, but he did not stop smoking. A crescent moon faintly illuminated the great brown plain, dotted with tents, and glittered on the corrugated iron roof of the New Hush Saloon, which seemed to have monopolized all the life and laugh ter of the place. Paul Yelverton’s bril liant dark eyes were fixed on a certain spot, though lie bad not turned Ills head, and. very gradually, the faint impression grew more distinct, as though it were coming nearer. “It's all right, governor," n voice whis pered. “Don’t shoot.” “Who are you, and what do you want?” Yelverton asked In a low rone, and *ne shining muzzle of his revolver was still pointed at the creeping figure of a man who had dragged himself almost to his feet. ’ I'll explain everything If you’ll let me come Inside,’’ the hoarse voice answered. "I - can’t say a. word here, you don’t know who might be listening. I’ve come to you first, but there’s be plenty to give me a welcome.,) . T can put you on to a good thing.” “Coni-: in,” Yelverton said curtly, after a moment, and he motioned the man to precede him. and then fastened down the door of his tent, which he occupied alone. His right hand was in iiis coat pocket, he could shoot almost as conveniently that way is any oth r. “Now where do you eome from?” “I’ve been working on the other side or the hills, i kn w it was no use coining here, where every bit of ground worth having was already taken up, so I thought 1 would strike out in a new line on my own account. I did no good until this morning, when my luck suddenly turned. I found gold. “1 was half crazy with joy and when I had staked out my claim I lay the rest of the day woml- ring what it would he best to do. I saw the stuff was there thick • nougli to mean a little fortune to any one who could get at it. 1 Knew 1 couldn’t work the thing by myself—as 1 should have liked—for I have no money to pay for labor or food, so I came to the conclusion I must sell. And as you’re the richest man about here I’ve come to you.” “Of course I can say nothing until I have seen the place,” Yelverton replied. “I suppose you are quite willing for me to make a thorough inspection? You may be honest, or you may not. I know nothing about you." “You can come the first thing tomor row morning, governor, and look about as much as you like,” the man answer er; "I shouldn’t be such a fool as to try any tricks on an old hand like you ” Yelverton mad- a careful Inspection of the claim, and in several places found parlieh s of gold •■mbedded in the quartz, which pointed to the probability of rich ve'iis. All the conditions were favora- I ;<-; it was the right kind of ground to find gold in. “I will give you £500 for your proper ty.” he said to the ragged miner, who was smoking calmly. “Not a penny more; you can take my offer -or leave It.” “But it may ho worth thousands.” the man exclaimed. "The rock looks as it it were veined wlth gold, and when that is the case it is better than any alluvial diggings.” “I have made my offer and shall abide by it. I take the risk. If it did not look promising 1 should not have offered a« much, and it will take time and money to find out what tiie place is really worth.” “I’m In a tight corner, as you know, or you shouldn't have it. I am getting old and I want a little comfort. I'vo hot to the end of everything, so th« sooner I get away the better before. J break down. When can I have the money.” "Tomorrow, or today, if you like to take a check.” ’’No, thank you. No offense .but I prefer coin of the realm.” The following morning Y'elverton re turned with the money, and the claim having been legally made over to hint the man rode away, liis dilapidated fig ure looking curiously out of place astride the spirited gray horse—the only thing of value lie possessed. Yelverton was looking over his new investment when his eye was caught by s< mething lying behind a large bowlder with a piece of white jiaper fluttering on top. lie did not think it was l her* yesterday or he would have noticed it. He jumped down and found that the brown object concealed in the scrub was an old gun. A few words were scrawled or the piece of paper fastened to it:. "Paul Yelverton, Esq.: A token of gratitude." He stood motionless, as though arrest ed by an unseen hand. Had he been tricked? That was his first thought. Had that wretched scarecrow whom he had rashly despised scored off him and gone away, laughing in hi? sleeve? It wa? his gun beyond a doubt. Paul Yelverton's face grew ominously dark. He was as safe to play with as a wild beast from the jungle. But he could find no explanation, though he pondered hour after hour, silent and Immovable as fate, while the sun rose high in the heavens. He had examined the gun once, he now looked at it again more closely. Did it hold the key to the riddle? It was old and worn iut, hardly worth taking away. He would have suspected nothing if it had not b* < n fo- that message. As he looked down the barrel his alter-lion was suddenly arrested by a spark of something bright and shining. He re moved :t carefully. It was gold. He started to his feet and the gun rolled away. He examined the surface oi the rock again, and this time—his mind quickened by suspicion—he noticed that the signs of gold were all within rather limited area. He saw the trick in a flash. “The scoundrel has blown a small charge of gold dust into the crevices of the rock,” Ire cried aiond in his ex citement. “That would explain every thing. It is an old trick I had almost for gotten and 1 should probably not have remembered it now if it had not been for that speck sticking to the barrel. Of course, blown in like that, the gold gets embedded into the quartz in a natural way. You were very daring, my friend, but you were not wise when you indugled >i ur sense of humor at Paul Yelverton’s expense. "I’ll find him—he shall pay for this, though it takes ail I am worth,” he added under his breath. But the noisi est threats from another man would not have meant as much. “Though he won’t guess I have found out hi? trick so soon. Ik*, will not be too easy in his mind, and, very likely, he’ll get out of the country for a time. I’ve not a minute to lose if 1 want to reach Cape Town before the next mall /oat leaves for England.’’ And Yelverton put spurs to hts horse, racing over the great brown plain, scarce ly pausing to eat or drink. He learned nothing until he got to tho railway junction, when one of the ofli- t ials seemed to remember such a man as he described boarding the train for Cape Town. He would get there that morning. “And I shall bg there tomorrow, a day later, and the steamer leaves at noon,” Yelverton said to himself with compressed lips. “And there will be inquiries to r.rikc and various tilings to do.” Never theless, lie did not falter in liis pur- p* ise. The train was a half hour late in ar riving -and Yelverton found that there was only time- to drive direct to the docks. There was not a moment to CONTINUED ON LAST PAGE. A Series of Humorous Stories by Gelett Burgess and Will Irw in -MR, young man,” said Cof fee John. pointing the stem of his pipe at the lad in the red sweater, “sec- in ’ -we’ve all agreed to tes tify, s’pose yer pereeed to open the ball. Yon come in fust, an’ you talk fust. 1 -ain’t no fly cop. but tt strikes me you're a bit different from the rest <>f us, though we’re all differ ent enough, the L-ord knows. Yer jacket fits yer, an’ thet alone is enough to myse yer conspieus in this 'ere shop. I see a good many men parss in an art from be'ind the carnter, but I don't see none too many o’ the likes o' you. if L ain't mistook, you’ll !be by wye o’ bein’ wot I might call a amatoor at this ‘ere sort o' livin’, -an’ one as would find a joke w’er- ever 'c went. You’d larff at a bloomin’ corpse, you would. You'll never grow up, younjg -feliar; I give yer thet stryte, before yer even open yer marth.” “Even so!" said the youth. "Then i shall now proceed to let the procession of thought -wriggle, the band play and the bug hop. The suspense, I know, is something terrible, so 1 -spare your anx iety.” And with this fanfare he began to relate. THE STORY OF THE HARVARD FRESHMAN. When 1 received a cordial Invitation from the dean to leave Harvard the second time—on that occasion it. was ror setting off ten alarm clocks at two min ute intervals in ichaoel—the governor flew off the handle. My fool kid brother, that was to side track the tetter from the faculty, got mixed on his signals and the telegram that the old man sent back nearly put the Cambridge office out of business. He said that I had foozled m-y last drive, and, although a good cane is sometimes made out of a crooked stick, be washed his hands of me and would 1 please take notice that the re mittances were herewith discontinued. i noticed. Alter I’d settled up and given my tarewel-l dinner to the insti tute, where they were sorry to lose m<- because I was playing a cyclone game on the freshman eleven. I had S98 and twelve hours to leave the college yard. Thinking it over, it struck me that the keenest way tor me Jo get my money’s worth was to go out and take a suib igraduate course as a hobo, do tho Wyckoff act. minus the worker and the prayer meetings. I wasn't going to beg my meals—'there was where the pride of the coffins -stuck out—but 1 was will ing to stand for the rest—dust, rust amt cinders. As -a dead head tourist, nine ty-eight bones would feed me and sleep I swung on a first lesson in off mighty sick m« for auite a space. South Boston for my brake:beams and tumble at Worcester. It’s a long tale, with hungry Intervals, until I found niyselif in the. pound, at Peru, ills., for smashing a fresh brake- man and running up against the con stabulary. The police judge of that hustling little -western center is paid out of the fines he collects, ft is a strange coincidence that -When I was searched I Had £47. £0 on my person, and my inn- iur vagrancy and assiut-t came to £-10. l! cents -costs. The judge was a hard- s-nen deacon. Next week, after I crawled out .-f tlm underground Pullman at Louisville 1 was watching Senator Burke’s racing stabl- s come In and I was hungry enough i“ digest a sandcar. It being work or beg. I says, "Here’s where 1 break tin ethics of my chosen profession and strike for a job.” There was nothing do ing until one of the hands mentioned for a joke that a waiter was wanted for the dining room where t lie nigger jockeys ale. Tt is only a matter of sentiment,” said 1 to myself, “and my Massachu setts ancestors tit and bled and died to make freed men out of the sons of Ham. Here goes for a feed.” I took the place, collecting a breakfast in advance, and threw chow for three meals at colored gentlemen who buried it with their knives. “if I am the prodigal son." says I to myself, "these are the swine aii right.” There was a black exercise boy in the bunch who played the prize Berkshire hcg. He was rather big for a man about the stables. Superstition held that he could lick everything of his weight on earth, and he acted as though lie was a front-page feature in The Police Gazette. During the fourth meal he got gay over my frank, untrammeled way of passing the soup. By way of repar tee, I dropped the tray, tucked the apron and cleared for action. l-’lrst, I wiped off one end of the table with him. the way the hired girl han dles crumbs. Then I hauled him out into the light of day. so as not to muss the dining room, and stood him up against the pump and gave him the Counter check Quarrelsome. He was long on life and muscle, but short on science, and he swung miles wide. After l’d ducked and countered two attempts, ho dropped his head all o-f a sudden. I saw what was coming. I got out of range and let him butt, and when lie came into my zone of tire I gave him the knee good and proper. His face faded into a gaudy ruin. The superintendent came down to re store order, and saw how me-rily I jousted. He was a bit strie!. but l:e was a true Peruvian in some ways, and lie loved :t scrapper. That night I got a hurry cal; to the office, and walked away James Wiswell Coffin III. anointed as sistant rubber. After’ the season was over at Louisville, we pulled up stakes and hiked on to Chicago, following the circuit. When we moved, I was raised to night watchman—$40 and found. Nothing happened until close to the end of the season at Chicago, except that 1 ate regularly. Money was easy in that part. Whenever I picked up any of it I looked around for good things in the betting. Without springing my- s-if any. I cleaned up a little now and then, and when the big chance came I was $200 to the good. This is the way that Fate laid her self open, so that 1 could get in one short-armed pab ere she countered hard, it was the night before a big race, really more important to us than the derby. Every one around the stables ivas bug house with it. Before I went out on watch the superintendent—his name was Tatum, please remember that— lined nu- up ami told me lie would have me -arro-ted, electrocuted and crucified if there was a hair so much as crossed on either of our entries. We had two of them. Maduro and Maltese. The pair sold at 6 to 5. Outside and in it looked as though the old man hadn’t had a cup nailed so hard for years. The trainers were sleeping beside tho ponies, but I was supposed to lo-ok in every half hour to see how things were coming on. At midnight Tatum came around and repeated his remarks, which riled me a bit, and Maduro's trainer said he would turn in for a litt'.e sleep. The next call, for heaven knows what nutty reason. 1 got back to Maduro s stall a quarter ahead of the hour. There was about a teaspoonful of light coming through t he cracks. I got an eye to a knot hole and saw things happening. There was Maduro trussed like a rib roast and trying to jump, and there was tin- trainer—“Honest Bob,” they used to call him—poking a lead pencil up her nose. He said a swear word and began to feel around in the mare’s nostrils and pulled out a sponge. He. squeezed It up tight and stuffed it back and began to peko again. That was the cue for my grand entry. “Got, morning.” 1 said, through the hole; "you’re sleeping bully. 1 was cut ting and sarcastic, because I knew what was uii. The sponge game—stuff it up a horse’s nose, and he can walk and get around the same as ever, but when ho tries to run. he's a grampus. He was too paralyzed even to chuck the pencil, lie stood there with his hands down and his mouth open. “Oh. hello.” he said, when his wind blew back. 1 was just doctoring the mare > t i 1! nil i & i evov' 0 CONTINUED ON LAST PAGE