the same expression is current in those rural New England districts that the summer visitor has spared. A pretty name for a child is the universal "little trick." Naughty children are "given the bud " or the "hickory; "sometimes they have the "hickory wrapped round" them. "I ain't goin' to marry a wife won't work agin a cole collar," a man will say. He has in mind horses that will work only after they are warmed up by preliminary exercise. A housewife says that her boiling water "ain't kicking yet,' or is kicking, and certainly gives a very clear idea of a certain stage of ebullition. They shut up cattle "to gentle them." What could express our good intentions better than the use of "aim instead of "mean, or our too great intimacy with the thief of time than our everlasting "fixing," to do? "Has Coot harnessed the horses?" we ask. "No 'm, he 's fixin' to hitch 'em." Or Thomas the unready, engaged days ago to putter for us, is the party of the second part. "Mr. Peps, I thought you were coming to mend our pump." "Yes 'm, fixin' to do it right straight." "The all overs is a striking name for nervousness; and, somehow, "a fitified sheep" seems more to be pitied than a sheep "liable to fits." So "plumb" is a more forcible adjective than "quite," which has one meaning for the cultured, and an opposite intention for others. "Triflin'" pictures a down-at-theheel morality even better than the New England "shiftlessness." Besides, it is more versatile. Not only our minds and habits, but our health, our looks, our weather, may be "triflin'." The dialect has in it the refraction of the life of the speakers; every figure borrowed from the forest and the brutes and the primitive arts tells the story. But a dialect is something more: it is the faithful custodian of the past. or "no You remember Sainte-Beuve's definition: "Je define un patois une ancienne langue qui a eu des malheurs." There is a curious kinship between the New England and the Southern dialects, plainly stamping their common origin. Take words like "fault" used as a verb, or "delft " for any sort of crockery, or "galluses" (suspenders), or "tucking comb," or "out as a noun ("best out at preaching I ever heard"), or "unbeknown, great" of anything: they are as common as on the shores of Cape Cod. Other old words survive here that have faded out of New England speech. "Ben" for "been " is the old English form, and so is the construction "I ben" for "I was: you can find it on almost any page of Latimer's or Ridley's sermons. "I does plough, I did plough, I done ploughed," says an Arkansas darky, but so said reverend divines and scholars when America was discovered. "Holp" is the old English form of "help." "Ax," says Bishop Latimer, for "ask." "Worse and worser Ben Jonson did not scruple to write. Old people here still say "persever " for "persevere." In all the old English writers one reads of “a great rich man;" and to this day it is a common expression. A "sparkle" for a “spark, we say, and, like our ancestors, we "put out a fire" when we kindle it. They said “ a power," and a heap," and " great sort," and "a chance" of things, but I have not yet encountered our most common phrase of multitude, "a right smart.' But they had the same use of "like," and said "seemeth like " when "as" would be used by a modern grammarian; while we use "skipped out" as seriously as Wyckliffe did when he wrote in his Bible, "Paul and Barnabas skipped out among the rabble." a To one element in the Arkansas rustic's composition I give a hearty respect, namely, his robust independence. He is no man's inferior, and every For this very black man's superior. reason, because he is so secure in his self-respect, he has not an atom of the naturalized American's surly assertion; he does not "mutter in corners and grudge against the rich" any more than he truckles to them; and he never presumes a hair's breadth. Our renters open their doors when we pass. Whatever the character of the occasion, be it wedding, or funeral, or neighborhood dance, one invariable formula is called to us: "Won't you all come by?" Yet their visits to us are a formal paying of their respects, as it were, once a year. The children come Saturdays to Constance's sewingschool and Mrs. Planter's Loyal Legion; the women attend the mothers' meetings, which we try to make amusing with a faint suggestion of helpfulness: but that is all. When the planter, who is greatly beloved, fell sick, some years ago, several of the neighboring farmers would ride miles through the mud, every day, to inquire about him. It is no lack of interest; it is their untaught delicacy of feeling. "I 'lowed you all was right busy, so I didn't come, says the Arkansas cracker; or, "I 'lowed you all had a right smart of folkses to the house, so I kep' away." ton. The pivot on which a cotton plantation turns is the cotton gin. The mill is a versatile and obliging provider of comforts. It saws up our logs into lumber, saws our firewood, sharpens our tools, grinds our corn, and gins our cotThe same dusky hands help in all cases. We do have a different man to saw and to gin, but it would be considered sinful waste to use a fresh crew for each new kind of work. Ginning goes on like clockwork; but sawing is as thrilling as a circus, with the frequent hazards and the agility of the performers. Twice in two days of sawing, this week, have I seen a black athlete save his skin by his nimble legs. "There's a nigger just missed of being killed," said the leaper, with a grin. The store is near the mill, on the river bank, with its gambrel roof shading the wide piazza, and conveniently covering the last convoy of groceries, or Shadrach Muzzle's new stove, which is rapidly acquiring the fashionable terracotta tint, "waiting on Shadrach." In the rear, facing the village, is another piazza, even more likely to hold a mob of booted and soft hatted loungers. The store is the social centre. It has more occupations than the mill, even, being the grocery, the milliner's, the haberdasher's, the chemist's, the hardware store, the agricultural-implement depot, the gunsmith's, the meat market, and the jeweler's. ket, and the jeweler's. It is also, on occasion, the temple of justice, and before the schoolhouse was built it was the church. It is the post office, of course. The post office is in the back part of the store, an unpretentious desk, the glass of the boxes decorated with announcements of the mail hours, estray notices, advertisements of any coming "concert" (which does not mean a musical entertainment, by any means; rather, reverting to the true definition of the word, it implies any amusement conducted in concert, usually the speaking of very moral little speeches, and the reading of very broadly humorous selections by the school-children), possibly intimations. of church services and the sheriff's coming to collect taxes, and the proclamation of reward for the arrest of two murderers, with their respective portraits adorning the broadside. Our present two, it is pleasant to know, have polished manners." Every morning except Sunday, the mail rider rides up to the store door and remarks that the roads are "just terrible." The head clerk, who is deputy postmaster, master, 66 the planter being the post opens the mail, and reads the names of the owners of letters aloud. Next to the post office is the grocery, a little mixed, to be sure, with the crockery, and with a very choice assortment of tinware and colored glass, among which a few bright blue owl jugs are conspicuous. Opposite is the dry goods department, and overhead dangles the millinery shop, in boxes and out. The pharmacy has the advantage of a window, and is near the stove. Just across the aisle is the large shoe case that represents the stationer's stand, the jeweler's, and the haberdasher's. At Christmas it is also the toy shop. Our jewelry is of the highest order of gilt plate and colored stones. On the left a door opens into another building, where great cypress blocks are the chief furniture of the meat market. Here the pigs and sheep and beeves are dealt out; here, too, are the saddles, the horse "gear," the guns, the furniture, and the stoves. The shed adjoining holds ploughs, cotton planters, and stalk cutters, and there is a smoke-house for the hams. "Beneath that spreading oak the smithy stands," accommodating jackat-all-trades, like the other buildings. A neat carpenter shop, a brickyard, the stables, the barns, the corn cribs, and the plantation boarding-house complete the list of public institutions on the river; but out in the fields, on the edge of the slash, stands the stanch little white schoolhouse, that is church and hall of entertainment as well, and has served the late Wheel and present Farmer's Alliance for a meeting-room. Here, one winter, a literary society gathered weekly, to discuss such exciting questions as, Which is of more value, a horse or a cow? or, Are political parties of more use or harm? The school-teacher is paid fifty dollars a month, which represents as high a respect for learning here as three times the amount does in richer localities. Every Sunday, the Sunday school meets in the schoolhouse; and after school Constance or Mrs. Planter holds a brief service and reads a sermon, a very short one. Christmas time brings the festivity of the year. On Christmas Eve a huge fir will blaze, and spatter wax over me this Christmas time has an infinite The audience come in families, I used to wonder what became of the unsuccessful adventures in fashions of head gear or wraps, but now I understand. Every year one observes a number of startling experiments: frocks of an extraordinary cut and florid color; bonnets and hats that have made a bold claim on public favor, but missed the mark. They wear I know not what of an air of conscious failure, and one sees them forlornly flaunting themselves in shop windows, appealing to their last hope, the feminine weakness for bargains, by large black figures on small white cards, with "Marked down to" above the figures. Then, not piecemeal, as would happen if a deluded public had fallen into the snare and carried them off, but suddenly, at a swoop, they disappear. Well, they have gone South! The planter meets them in St. Louis, our contingent, that is, and they are introduced to him as "an uncommonly cheap lot, in perfect condition." In nine cases out of ten the "uncommonly cheap lot" follows him home on a freight train. Thus we observe a fashion of our own. Last winter, all the women and children, black and white, blossomed out like a tulip bed with bright-hued toboggan caps, which they wore, defying age, looks, or weather, late into the spring. Half the petticoats of the plantation, another year, appeared in a "job lot" of striped cotton that had failed to impress the Northern fancy. Christmas Eve, all our good clothes will come to the fore. You, gentle reader, who have never really touched elbows with the poor, will smile over our grotesque finery. By the stove sits a man who, lacking a warm coat, has supplied its place with a quilt of many colors. But he is easy in his mind; does he not wear a shining new pair of rubber boots, and has not his wife new brass "breastpin and ear - bobs"? And if our shoes are ragged, you will see very few ragged gowns; and there are many men in the splendor of white linen as stiff as flour starch can make it. The children are so happy over their toys that it gives the beholder a softened pang. Watching them; knowing their narrow lives; picturing the cabin left behind in the lonely clearing, where the wind whistles through the broken windows, and, outside, the lean kine are vainly nibbling at the cotton stalks, I feel the weight of the immemorial tragedy on my holiday mood. Not they one boy is winding a Waterbury watch, and his whole being is flooded with content; another is quite as happy over a pair of rubber boots; and little Johnnie Kargiss would not exchange that clumsy pocket knife for anything on the tree. Besides the Christmas tree, other festivities have had the schoolhouse to thank. Here, on the teacher's platform, was once erected an imposing red-paper fireplace, wherein burned a lantern behind red tinsel, giving a lifelike semblance of flame; and Box and Cox toasted their muffins and wrangled over their room, to the uproarious glee We of a large audience. Mrs. Jarley's Waxworks were wound up on the same platform. The Land of Nod was given by the school-children, and excited universal admiration. The question of costumes was solved in the briefest manner, by making them ourselves. even manufactured shoes and armor; the latter out of pasteboard and tinfoil filched from tobacco packages at the store. We were somewhat appalled, however, at the discovery that eight little sleepy-heads, who should appear in the comely simplicity of nightgowns, must have costumes provided. The nightgown, it appeared, was an infrequent luxury. Fortunately, one little girl had several; so we managed, by borrowing, to fit out the crowd, - all but one little lad, and him we draped with a voluminous cheesecloth garment that had been made for an angel in a tableau. It was so long that he stumbled on it as he walked, and, being constructed solely with an eye to the view from the front, it opened behind, and had a trick of inflating and parting, giving his new blue jeans and red flannel shirt the appearance of being wafted along in a kind of broken balloon. The planter on a plantation is expected to direct all undertakings of pleasure or profit. In most cases, he is postmaster, justice of the peace, free doctor, and matrimonial adviser for the neighborhood. Such a scene as this is common: Scene, the store. Dramatis personæ, the planter and Jeff Laughlin, whose wife has been dead full two months. Laughlin. "Well, no, sir, I ain't come for tradin' to-day; I aimed to ask you' advice." Polite but inarticulate murmur from planter, who goes on posting up his ledger. Laughlin (whittling abstractedly on the rim of the desk). "Well, you see, my mother-in-law, she's a mighty nice old lady, and she gits a pension of eight dollars a month, and spends ever' cent on it fur the children; but, fact is, she's so old and so nigh-sighted she jest natchelly cayn't keep things up; and it's too hard for her, and it 's jest breaking her down. And I jest 'lowed I'd ask you' advice." Planter. "Well, Laughlin, I don't see anything for it but for you to marry again!" Laughlin (brightening considerably). "Well, I don't see anything else I kin do. I hate to terribly; but looks like I jest natchelly ben obleeged to." Planter. "Had you anybody in your mind, Laughlin? Laughlin. "I reckon Phonetta Rose would n't have me?" Planter (with truthful frankness). "No, I don't reckon she would." Laughlin. "I 'lowed she'd think I'd got too many children." Planter. "Yes, I dare say." Laughlin. "They 're mighty nice, still children, and make a strong force for the cotton field." Planter. "They seem nice children." say, Mist' Planter, don't you guess you could write a letter to Miss Phonetta, and ask her for me?" Planter. "Well, no, Mr. Laughlin. I don't think she would take kindly to having any other man do her sweetheart's courting. You speak up for yourself!" Laughlin (despondently). "Yes, sir, I'll turn it over in my mind; but you see I'd hate terrible for to have her say no to me right to my face, and twud n't be nigh so bad in a letter. And I ain't much in the habit of writin' letters myself" (which was strictly true, Laughlin being barely able to sign his name and "read writin' "), 'so I did n't know but you," etc. 66 Unlucky Laughlin! he has reached the boundary line of the planter's amiability. "I won't write love letters and I won't pull teeth!" declares the planter; and Laughlin goes his way to at a propose to Phonetta in form, on their way home from "playing games neighbor's, to be rejected, and to feel ever afterward that if "Mist' Planter 'd named it to her, instead, she 'd of talked different." But we foresee that he will be consoled. In this country, widowers spend no long time in mourning. Six months are all that the most decorous would ask; most widowers wait three months, two months, or only one. This haste does not imply hardness of heart so much as a hard life. What, indeed, shall a man do who has three or four little children, a big field waiting his hand outside, and no woman to guide things? The early marriages that are a most prolific source of poverty and unhappiness have a kindred excuse. "Well," a young fellow says, "reckon I'll git married and make a crap!" His wife works in the field with him. If he have children, they can help. Boys of seventeen, girls of sixteen, are married here continually. The women have a hard life, working in the fields and in the house; they age early, and die when, under happier chances, they would be in their prime. Thus it happens that so many men have three, or four, or five wives "without," as one honest fellow said, "never fighting with none of 'em." "I kep' 'em all decent, an' I buried 'em all in a store coffin," said he. An old planter, alluding to an unhealthy region, said, "Why, right down there I buried two or three wives, and four children, and a heap of niggers! They are very fond of their children and kind to them; unwisely kind, perhaps, as we Americans are inclined to be. To all the other hardships of a woman's life here is added her mourning for her little children; for the careless life bears hard on them, especially in overflow seasons. Sometimes we are reminded of this in a homely yet affecting way, as yesterday, when in、 |