IN THE FLAT-WOODS. 9 
upon the smallness of hisload. Yes, he said; 
but it was a pretty heavy load to drag seven 
or eight miles over such roads. Possibly he 
understood me as implying that he seemed 
to be in rather small business, although I had 
no such purpose, for he went on to say: “ In 
1861, when this beautiful war broke out be- 
tween our countries, my father owned nig- 
gers. We didn’t have to do this. But I 
don’t complain. If I had n’t got a bullet in 
me, I should do pretty well.” 
‘‘'Then you were in the war?” I said. 
“‘Oh, yes, yes, sir! I was in the Confed- 
erate service. Yes, sir, I’m a Southerner 
to the backbone. My grandfather was a 
” (I missed the patronymic), “and com- 
manded St. Augustine.” 
The name had a foreign sound, and the 
man’s complexion was swarthy, and in all 
simplicity I asked if he was a Minorean. I 
might as well have touched a lighted match 
to powder. His eyes flashed, and he came 
round the tail of the cart, gesticulating with 
his stick. 
“‘Minorean!” he broke out. “ Spain and 
the island of Minorca are two places, ain’t 
they ?”’ 
