A WEEK ON WALBEN'S BIDGE. 129 



mule. For my own part, as often as he 

 drew back his hand and let fly the lash, my 

 eye was glued to the mule's right ear in 

 spite of myself. Had my own ears been en- 

 dowed with life and motion, instead of fast- 

 ened to my head like blocks of wood, I think 

 they too would have twitched. I wondered 

 how long the man had practiced his art. 

 He appeared to be not more than forty-five 

 years old. Perhaps he came of a race of 

 drivers, and so began life with some heredi- 

 tary advantages. At all events, he was a 

 specialist, with the specialist's motto, " This 

 one thing I do." 



We were hardly off the bridge and in the 

 country before I began plying him with 

 questions about this and that, especially the 

 wayside trees. He answered promptly and 

 succinctly, and turned out to be a man who 

 had kept his eyes open, and, better still, 

 knew how to say, "No, suh," as well as, 

 "Yes, suh." (There is no mark in the 

 dictionaries to indicate the percussive brevity 

 of the vowel sound in "suh" as he pro- 

 nounced it.) The big tupelo he recognized 

 as the " black-gum." " But is n't it ever 

 called 'sour -gum'?" "No, suh." He 



