THE PLANTATION HOUSE OF " FAR AWAY." 39 



" Lift it up yourself, you lazy nigger," replied the master. 



The negroes ran, our dogs howled acquaintance with the dogs 

 of the place, the little nigs looked on from every out-of-the-way 

 corner, and with shout, and laugh, and much confusion, we soon 

 had our tent pitched by the spring, the ponies tethered, and every- 

 thing well regulated about us. Then came a good dinner, cooked 

 in one of the little disconnected kitchens so favoured by the true 

 darky cook, who, when not engaged in stirring the pepper pot or 

 turning the corn-bread, stands in her red bandana in the doorway, 

 with her arms akimbo, looming as large as the wonderful fat 

 woman in the Museum. We brought game, and Jackson had 

 cooks,' and we all dined well, and then a glass of good old peach 

 brandy from his own still carried our minds to other lands, and 

 sent our tongues travelling all around the world for adventures. 



It was dark as we finished the bottle, and Jackson unlocked his 

 closet for another. I believe that wine-closet was the only thing 

 that was locked on the place. The negroes had crawled out of 

 their curious retreats, and were lying around in groups. The 

 sheep-drivers had come in from the folds, and the tinkling of tiny 

 bells announced that the sheep and cows were penned for the 

 night. The camp-fire was lit, pipes were smoking, Jackson was 

 sitting against one of the pack-saddles, and his daughter was 

 reclining against his knees. His daughter was a brunette of 

 sixteen, and her mother was dead, it was said, many years ago. 



" Re was a gentleman," said Jackson, pursuing a description 

 he had been giving of some one living on the coast. " He never 

 took an insult, and never gave one, sir ; what more could be said 

 of any man ? " 



" And he guv dis chile a dollar Christmas day — course he 's a 

 gememan," struck in Hoppin Lem, the planter's favourite servant, 

 who, squatted on his haunches a few yards behind his master, 

 drank in all the conversation, and joined in the laugh, with the 

 low " yah-e — ah-ah-ee ! " of the negro. 



" Hold your tongue, you black rascal ! " said his master. 



" Was it not he who shot young Travers in a duel at the Mobile 

 races ? " asked the Doctor. 



" Of course it was, sir ; and did it as bravely as any man ever 



