WINTER SUNSHINE 17 



crimson spar, — the only bit of color in the whole 

 landscape. 



Maryland is here rather a level, unpicturesque 

 country, — the gaze of the traveler bounded, at no 

 great distance, by oak woods, with here and there 

 a dark line of pine. We saw few travelers, passed 

 a ragged squad or two of colored boys and girls, and 

 met some colored women on their way to or from 

 church, perhaps. Never ask a colored person — at 

 least the crude, rustic specimens — any question 

 that involves a memory of names, or any arbitrary 

 signs; you will rarely get a satisfactory answer. If 

 you could speak to them in their own dialect, or 

 touch the right spring in their minds, you would, 

 no doubt, get the desired information. They are as 

 local in their notions and habits as the animals, and 

 go on much the same principles, as no doubt we all 

 do, more or less. I saw a colored boy come into 

 a public office one day, and ask to see a man with 

 red hair; the name was utterly gone from him. 

 The man had red whiskers, which was as near as he 

 had come to the mark. Ask your washerwoman 

 what street she lives on, or where such a one has 

 moved to, and the chances are that she cannot tell 

 you, except that it is a "right smart distance" this 

 way or that, or near Mr. So-and-so, or by such and 

 such a place, describing some local feature. I love 

 to amuse myself, when walking through the market, 

 by asking the old aunties, and the young aunties, 

 too, the names of their various "yarbs." It seems 

 as if they must trip on the simplest names. Blood- 



