A COTTON PLANTATION. 189 
read my thoughts just then he would perhaps 
have been angry with himself, and pretty 
certainly he would have been angry with me. 
That a Yankee should accept his hospitality, 
and then load him with curses and call him 
all manner of names! How should he know 
that I was so insane a hobbyist as to care 
more for the sight of a new bird than for all 
the laws and customs of ordinary politeness ? 
Asmy feelings cooled, I saw that I was step- 
ping over hills or rows of some strange-look- 
ing plants just out of the ground. Peanuts, 
I guessed; but to make sure I called to a 
colored woman who was hoeing not far off. 
“What are these?” “ Pinders,” she an- 
swered. I knew she meant peanuts,— other- 
wise “‘ground-peas”” and “ goobers,” — and 
now that I once more have a dictionary at my 
elbow I learn that the word, like “ goober,” 
is, or is supposed to be, of African origin. 
I was preparing to surmount the barbed- 
wire fence again, when the planter returned 
and halted for another chat. It was evident 
that he took a genuine and amiable interest 
in my researches. There were a great many 
kinds of sparrows in that country, he said, 
and also of woodpeckers. He knew the 
