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 COLLECTION OF 
 
 ENDOWED B Y 
 
 JOHN SPRUKT HILL 
 of the class of 1889 
 
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THEODOSIA BURR. 
 ( The Nas:'s Head Portrait) 
 
®If^ Sgrte 
 
 
 BY 
 
 l^tlt^ Jr^slfmat^r ftcnl 
 
 P 
 
 Co 
 
 flicmpang, N^m fork 
 
Copyrighted, 1905, 
 
 BY 
 
 BETTIE FRESHWATER POOL. 
 
 All Rights Reserved, 
 
To THE 
 
 Memory of My Brother, 
 
 The Late Hon. Walter F. Pool, 
 
 This Book is 
 
 Most Lovingly Dedicated 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
C0NTE1\ TS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I.— "The Eyrie" 1-^ 
 
 II. — The Nag's Head Picture of Theodosia 
 
 Burr 18 "^ 
 
 III. — The Shadow of the Past 26 - 
 
 IV. — Joe Pi>'etop's "Marse Jeemes" 29 
 
 V. — On the Amazon 40 
 
 VI. — Divided 47 
 
 VII. — Little Marse Hal 51 
 
 VIII.— Poems : 
 
 Angel of My Gethsemane 68 
 
 Summer Twilight 69 
 
 The Will-o'-the-Wisp 70 
 
 Our Flower and Star 71 
 
 Dreams 72 
 
 Song 73 
 
 De Flea 74 
 
 Little Elsie 75 
 
 My Dear Sunny Southland 76 
 
 Thou art Sleeping 77 
 
 The Grippe 78 
 
 In God's Hands 83 
 
 My Love is all around Thee 85 
 
 IX. — The Monstrosity (by Gaston Pool) 86 
 
I. 
 
 "THE EYRIE." 
 
 When I bought the Shirley farm I carried my 
 bride to the Eyrie, the old-fashioned irregular man- 
 sion on Pasquotank river, that years ago had been 
 the home of the Shirleys. 
 
 This old place has a romantic charm for me, 
 so remote it is from the noise and strife of the 
 busy world ; so restful it looks, with its background 
 of stately pines, and its elm-shaded lawn dotted 
 with buttercups, daisies and white clover. 
 
 That beautiful sheet of water, Pasquotank river, 
 flows not a hundred yards from our door. In sun- 
 shine and in storm it is a delight to watch the 
 w^hite-winged ships sail by on their way to the har- 
 bor a few miles distant, to listen to the murmur 
 of the rippling water, and see great flocks of birds 
 silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. 
 
 This picturesque grove of stately old elms, pines 
 and sycamores, festooned with graceful garlands 
 of gray moss, and odorous with the scent of jas- 
 mine, wild honey-suckle and eglantine, is a place 
 to see visions and dream dreams. 
 
 I spend many an idle hour seated on the gnarled 
 roots of a huge oak tree which grows near the 
 edge of the water, with the woman I love by my 
 side, drinking in all the beauty and charm of this 
 restful, picturesque spot. 
 
2 The Eyrie, 
 
 Sometimes Uncle Pete, an aged negro, once a 
 devoted slave of the Shirleys, beguiles the time 
 with quaint stories of those halcyon days "befo' 
 de war.'^ Those days of romance and chivalry, 
 with their somber setting of storm and blood-shed 
 and tears, stand out in bold relief on the can- 
 vas of Uncle Pete's memory : and when in a 
 reminiscent mood he likes nothing better than to 
 regale an appreciative listener with legend and 
 story from the vast store of his treasured collec- 
 tion. 
 
 Let me give in his own words the story of the 
 Shirleys; should I substitute my own language in 
 place of his quaint dialect, the story, I am sure, 
 would lose half its interest. 
 
 "You ax me huccum dis place call de Eyrie. 
 De place tuck its name frum er big eagle's nes' 
 whuPs been in dat pine thicket yonder better'n er 
 hundred years. Dar dem bu'ds lays der eggs an' 
 hatches der young year a'ter year; an' you better 
 not pester um 'dout you want ter git yo' eyes to' 
 out wid dem sharp claws. 'Bout ten years ago dem 
 eagles tuck er notion ter mo' dat nes' ter ernudder 
 tree close by. Dat wery nex' day dar come up er 
 terrible thunderstorm, an' de lightnin' struck dat 
 tree whar de eagle's nes' been mo'd from, an' bu'nt 
 it smack ter de groun'. Eagles got a heap mo' 
 sense'n folks. Dey know jis' when dat storm com- 
 in' up, dat's huccum dey mo' dat nes' jis' in de 
 nick er time. 
 
 "Marse Joe Shirley had dat house built, an' dar 
 he lib twell he die; den de place wuz sole an' 
 strangers been libin' dar eber sense. My little 
 ole hut standin' ober yonder yit. I hopes de Lord 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 3 
 
 guine let me lib dar twell He calls me away frum 
 dis heer worl' ter jine ole Marster an' de chillim 
 up dar in de New Jerusalem. I wish you could 
 er seen dis place 'fo' de war. Ober yonder ter de 
 lef wuz de quarter' whar all de black folks stay; 
 piles an' piles er little white-washed houses jist 
 ez neat ez er pin. De Obeseer an' his wife lib in 
 er bigger house beyant de thicket; an' dar ter de 
 right wuz de big barn, an' de stables chock full er 
 horses an' mules. 
 
 "De Shirlevs wuz some er de quality. Marse 
 Joe wuz 'mos' rich ez er king. He don't mess 
 his time wid no po' white trash, I kin tell you dat. 
 'Pear lack he jis' ez proud ez he hin be 'fo' Marse 
 Tom wuz born: but a'ter dat he so sot up he can't 
 hardly walk, sho' 'nuff. He so happy kaze he 
 got er son ter bear 'is name, an' heir all dat prop- 
 erty. 
 
 "An' when Miss Xellie come erlong, he say he 
 got de two beautifules' chillun in de whole kentry, 
 dafs sartin. Dey bof jis' lack dey Ma, wid dem 
 yaller curls an' white skin. 
 
 "Lord ! how dem chillun did lub one nurr. 
 Wliene'er you see Marse Tom dar you see Miss 
 Xellie, too. She f oiler him in de woods ter look 
 fer beech-nuts an' chinkepins : she go out in de 
 snow wid 'im ter set traps fer de snow-bu'ds ; she 
 kin climb trees 'mos' good ez he kin, an' ride hors'- 
 back 'dout no saddle, too. Wonder she ain't break 
 'er neck long ergo, she so wentur'some. 
 
 ^^When dey git big ernuf ter go ter school, one 
 day Marse Tom git ter fight wid er boy 'mos' big 
 ez two er him. Dat boy had 'im down, beatin' 'im, 
 when up Jumps Miss K'ellie an' grabs er big light- 
 
4 The Eyrie, 
 
 ^ood knot, an' starts fer to bu'st dat bo/s head 
 open wid it. Dat boy name Jack Gray. When 
 he see Miss Nellie comin' wid dat light-'ood knot 
 he jumps up an' run; den he laff an' tell er he 
 ain't guine beat dat little brurr er hern no mo'. 
 Miss Nellie tell 'im he better not, do she guine kill 
 'im sho' 'nuff. 
 
 "Dem chillun git mo' an' mo' wrapt up in one 
 nurr ez dey grow older, in 'tickler a'ter ole Mistis 
 ceasted. Dey jis' lack twins. 
 
 "When Marse Tom went ter Chapel Hill ter 
 College, Miss Nellie 'mos' cry 'er eyes out. She 
 so lonesome I feared she guine pine erway an' 
 die. Dat Jack Gray alus hangin' 'roun' her, say 
 he guine teck Marse Tom's place while he gone. 
 She say nobody can't take Marse Tom's place. Dat 
 Jack had 'is eye sot on Miss Nellie eber sence dat 
 day she guine knock 'is brains out wid dat light- 
 'ood knot, when dey wuz chilluns. 
 
 "Marse Joe 'gun ter see whut dat chap up ter, 
 presney. He tell Miss Nellie she got ter put er 
 stop ter 'is comin' dar, 'dout he guine to it hisse'f . 
 Miss Nellie jis' hilt her head up an' ain't say 
 whut she guine do. Ole Marster he ain't say no 
 mo' right erway : he jis' watchin'. When he see 
 dat feller ain't stop comin' he git ez mad ez thun- 
 der. Den one day he had it out wid Jack Gray, 
 an' ferbid 'im ter step 'is foot in dat house ergin. 
 Jack say he lub Miss Nellie an' Miss Nellie lub 
 him, an' he say he made up 'is mind he guine mar'y 
 'er some day. He tell Marse Joe he needn't hole 
 his head so high jis' 'cause he's rich, dat he jis' 
 ez good ez he is, ef he ain't got ez much money. 
 He talk so sa'sy dat Marse Joe jis' slam de doo' 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 5 
 
 in 'is face an' don't say no mo'. Den he an' Miss 
 Nellie has it out. He tell her dat ef dat common- 
 no'count feller eber steps his foot in his house 
 ergin, he gnine shoot him down lack er dog. 
 
 "Den Miss Nellie write Jack Gray er letter an' 
 tell 'im whnt her Pa say, an' beg 'im not ter come 
 nigh her no mo'. Den she walk de floo' er her 
 room an' cry all night, Dinah say, an' 'clar' her 
 heart done broke. 
 
 "Not long a'ter dat Marse Tom come home from 
 college, den Miss Nellie 'peared ter be happy fer 
 er while. She proud er Marse Tom now sho' 'nuff, 
 kaze he done graderwated an' got fust on all his 
 studies. Ole Marster's prouder 'n eber now, kaze 
 he got sich er smart son. He hole 'is head high 
 now sho' 'nuff . Lord ! ef we didn't ha' good times 
 dat summer, I'll hush ! Sich er dancin' an' feast- 
 in', sich piles er company you neber did see ! De 
 sun wuz shinin' den sho' 'nuff, we wa'n't studyin' 
 'bout no time when de shaders guine fall, an' de 
 light an' de joy done gone clean erway. Dat 
 time wuz er comin' do, fast ernuff. 
 
 "De war cloud getherin' right den, an' hit guine 
 break right ober our heads 'f 0'' we know it. Presney 
 down hit come wid er smash, an' Marse Tom done 
 gone ter Eo'noke Islan' ter fight de Yankees. De 
 whole kentry wuz swarmin' wid Yankees an' buf- 
 ferlo's an' g'rillers. Yo' life wa'n't wurth nuffin' 
 dem days. 
 
 "But I ain't guine talk erbout de war, — you 
 knows all erbout dat, — I guine tell you 'bout Miss 
 Nellie an' Jack Gray, an' de quiltin' party. 
 
 "Dat Jack he ain't come nigh Marse Joe no 
 ino'5 but he meet Miss Nellie at all de parties, an' 
 
6 The Eyrie, 
 
 she 'low 'im ter set by 'er an' talk ter 'er, all he 
 please; but ole Marster don^t know nnthin' ^boiit 
 dat. 
 
 "In dem days de ladies gin big quiltin' parties, 
 an' a'ter de quiltin' wuz done come de snpper an' 
 de fiddlin' an' de dancin'. I knows yen's heered 
 erbout all dat. Ole Miss Commander whut libbed 
 down on Little Eiber wuz gittin' up one er dem big 
 quiltin' parties; an' Miss Nellie an' 'er young lady 
 frum town — name Miss Fannie Black — whar wuz 
 wisitin' 'er wuz 'wited. Incose I had ter take 
 um ter de party in de big kerridge, in style. 
 
 "Dar wuz er big crowd dar dat night, an' things 
 wuz lively, I tell you. But low an' behole ! 'Long 
 'bout ten o'clock dat Jack Gray rid up wid Mr. 
 Harris, whut's er magistrate, an' 'fo' anybody kin 
 say Jack Eobinson, dar be er weddin' right dar. 
 Dat rascal. Jack Gray, done 'swade Miss Nellie ter 
 mar'y him den an' dar, an' he done gone an' fetch 
 dat magistrate 'fo' anybody but Miss Nellie 
 'specion whut he up ter. 
 
 "A'ter de marriage wuz ober she come in de 
 kitchen lookin' puty ez er picture. She mick er 
 fine bow ter me, an' say (puttin' her han' on Jack 
 Gray's arm) : 
 
 " TJncle Pete, 'low me ter 'duce you ter my hus- 
 ban', Mr. Jack Gray. I shill not trouble you ter 
 tak' me home. My husband will tak' me ter 
 his home at de Cedars, whar' we shill be glad 
 ter hab you come ter see us when you will ' 
 
 "I ain't say nuttin\ I jis' sot dar so skeered 
 I 'mos' dead, my jaw done drap ; kaze I speck Marse 
 Joe guine kill me good fashion when I tell him de 
 news. I shan't neber fergit dat night! Sich er 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 7 
 
 time as we had when I gits home, an' brings dem 
 tidin's! Marse Joe jis' walks de fioo' all night 
 'long, he ain't sleep one wink, an' I ain't nuther. 
 But\e ain't kill me, he so mad wid dat Jack Gray 
 an' Miss Nellie he ain't studyin' 'bout me. 
 
 'TDat night Marse Joe writ ter Miss Nellie, an' 
 tell 'er his doo' done shet on her frnm dat time 
 fo'th, dat she ain't no da'ter er hisn no longer. Den 
 he write ter Marse Tom, an' tell him whut his 
 
 sister done. 
 
 "Poor ole Marster! his heart 'mos' broke 'bont 
 Miss Nellie, but he won't 'low nobody ter call her 
 
 name no mo', 
 
 "Not many weeks a'ter dat de big boat whar 
 dey call de "Spauldin' " come np frum Eo'noke 
 Islan' an' fotch de Southern pris'ners. Pore Marse 
 Tom got wounded in de lef shoulder, an' had ter 
 stey home er long time, an' be nursed twell he git 
 well. Ole Marster so glad ter ha' his boy home 
 ergin' dat he che'rs right up an' am ez lively ez 
 
 er cricket. . , 
 
 "But I see Marse Tom is pmm' fer his sister. 
 When he git by hisse'f he look so lonesome an' sad, 
 I feels er lump rise in my th'ot : kaze I pinin' fer 
 Miss Nellie, too. I sholy wuz lonesome, dat's de 
 trufe ; kaze she de light er de house. 
 
 "I imow Marse Tom go ter see Miss Nellie some- 
 times, but ole Marster don't know nuttin' 'bout 
 it. Marse Tom ain't guine gi' up dat sweet sis- 
 ter er hisn ter please nobody. Dat he ain't. But 
 Lord a mussv! we all git stirred up sho' 'nuS, 
 when de news come dat Jack Gray done gone an 
 line de buSerloes. Yes, sar ! he jis' wheel right 
 eroun' an' he'p de Yankees ter fight his own folks. 
 
8 The Eyrie, 
 
 ^'Marse Joe, he cut up lack tliunder when he 
 heer dat; but Marse Tom ain't say nuttin', tie jis' 
 tu'n white in de face an' shet 'is mouf tight, an' 
 go down an' walk all by hisse'f on de riber sho' 
 dar. He surtney do look lonesome now, dat's de 
 truf e ! 
 
 "De weeks an' de munts roll erway, an' de whole 
 kentry tu'nd upside down, wid de Yankees, de buf- 
 ferloes an' de g'rillers, jis' er swarmin', all o' de 
 whole creation, 
 
 "One night dat summer I settin' on my doo'- 
 step all by myse'f, kaze Marse Tom rid ter Nixon- 
 ton dat mornin' an' ain't come back, an' I wait- 
 in' fer 'im. De night wuz dark ez pitch ; I couldn't 
 eben see de win'mills cross de riber on de Camden 
 side. 
 
 "I sat dar watchin' ole Hogan's light rise up 
 slow outen de water. I 'spec you heern 'bout dat 
 light. Dat ole Hogan out fishin' on dark nights. 
 He wuz er powerful mean nigger, he wuz. He 
 busy all de week an' stays out dar on de riber in 
 his little rowboat an' fishes all day long erry Sun- 
 days. One dark night ole Hogan out dar 
 ha'in' er big time fishin', when er storm come up 
 an^ capsize dat boat, an' dat nigger fall out an' 
 git drownded. He dead sho' ; but he ain't git no 
 res', jis' de same. God A'mighty guine make 'im 
 stay out dar on dat riber an' fish all night in de 
 dark, ter punish 'im fer fishin' so much on Sun- 
 days. He guine punish ole Teach, too, whut dey 
 call ole Blackbeard, 'sides sendin' 'im ter de deble. 
 He ain't res' none in liis grave nuther. Many er 
 time me an' heap mo' folks sees er sperit ship sail- 
 in' up an' down, up an' down, out yonder in de 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 9 
 
 riber. Ain't no boat on de yeth kin obertake dat 
 ship. Sailors, an' folks on sho' too, sees Teaches' 
 light mighty often, an' dey sees dat shader ship 
 plain ez daylight. 
 
 "Cap'n Me}Tiard done had Teaches' head chopped 
 off long ergo; but he has ter come back an' sail 
 dat boat, head er no head. 
 
 "Fust thing he done a'ter 'is head wuz cut off 
 wuz ter swim 'roun' de boat whar kotch 'im three 
 times. He jis' showin' folks whut he kin do 'dout 
 no head, er nuttin'. 
 
 "Wlien dat ole pirate uster git dat long hair, 
 an' dat long black beard er hisn plaited an' stuck 
 full er lit candles, an' 'gin ter chaw glass twell de 
 blood trickle down his chin, an' when he gits ter 
 bu'nin' sulphur an' brimstone, an' er-wavin' dat 
 s'od 0' his head, an' er-cussin' an' cuttin' up, folks 
 nigh' 'bout b'le'e he de ole deble hisse'f. 
 
 "I sutney does wish I had some er dat money 
 he got bu'ied every which erway 'roun' heer, deble 
 er no deble. I feard ter go look fer it do, kaze 
 he ajus cut off de head er one er his men an' bury 
 "wid ery pot er money, ter 'tect it. Ef you dig fer 
 dat money, time yo' spade strike de iron pot whar 
 hoi's it, dat pot done sunk smack ter de middle 
 er de yerth, an' 'fo' 3^ou knows it, er gre't, big 
 mill-stone 'gins ter spin 'roun' right ober yo' head, 
 an' yo' 'speck erry minute hit guine drap an' 
 squush yo' brains out. An' 'fo' you kin run fer 
 yo' life, dat man whar had his head cut off, done 
 dim' ter de top er dat tree, an' dar he sets watch- 
 in' you wid t«^o gre't, big red eyes, jis' lack balls er 
 far'. 
 
 "Nobody needn't try ter steal none er ole 
 
10 The Eyrie, 
 
 Teaches' money, I tell you dat. He got some hid 
 in dat woods ober yonder, an' Buzzard's Islan' jis' 
 chock full er date gole. 
 
 "Down yonder on Little Flatty Creek is whar 
 he had his headquarters. Dar he keep pasel er 
 dem goods he stole. I'm hern some er dem folks 
 whut libed on Little Flatty Creek wuz in league 
 wid him in his divilment. Sometimes he'd come 
 wid er whole troop er his debles ter some er de 
 towns an' march th'oo, cuttin' up lack he clean 
 crazy. He march his men right in de folks' houses 
 an' teck jis' whut he please, 'dout axin' nobody 
 no odds, an' dey skeered ter 'zist 'im, kaze ef dey 
 do he chop der head right off. He ain't ax no odds 
 to rush right in an' grab er man's wife er da'ter 
 an' run off wid 'er, an' when he gits tar'd er her 
 he jis' chop off 'er head an' fling 'er o'board. But 
 I better stop talkin' 'bout 'im dis fashion. Fust 
 thing I knows he'll grab me an' cut off my head 
 an' fling me in dat riber. 
 
 "But dat night I tellin' you 'bout, when I set- 
 tin' dar watchin' ole Teaches' light, I heers Marse 
 Tom come gallopin' up on hossback. He see me 
 settin' in de light er de doo', an' drive up dar an' 
 say, ^Pete, git on dis hors' quick, an' go ter Nel- 
 lie's an' tell her dat I say ter meet me at de fork 
 er de road jis' in front er her house at ten erclock 
 ter-morrer mornin'. Tell her not ter fail ter do 
 dat. Do you understan' ?' 
 
 "I jumps on dat hoss an' erway I goes. I git 
 ter Miss Nellie's all right an' 'livers dat message, 
 an' starts home ergin 'bout twelve er'clock. 
 
 "I rid erlong not thinkin' 'bout bein' skeered 
 twell I gits in front er de ole Ashley house dar 
 
And Other Southern Stones. ii 
 
 ter De Elums. ^Bout dat time my hoss shied so 
 sudent I jam pitched head ober heels; an^ I heer 
 supin' guine whiz ! whiz ! whiz ! lack er big wheel 
 turnin' ^roim'. Den my hair riz on my head sho' 
 'nuii; kase I knowed pintidly dat de sperit er ole 
 Miss Ashley. She nster be er mighty spinner, 
 an' when you heers dat wheel guine whiz ! whiz ! 
 whiz ! lack dat, you knows dat's her sperit settin' 
 dar spinnin' fer dear life. Sometimes she come 
 back in de shape uf er gre't, big ball er far', 'bout 
 de size uv er cart-wheel, an' she roll down dat road 
 jist er scatterin' sparks ez she goes. 
 
 ^''I 'mos' sho' I guine see dat ball er far' dat 
 night when I heered dat wheel tu'nin' roun', an' 
 ef I didn't meek dat hoss skoot I'll hush ! 
 
 "Ole Mr. Ashley had dat house built wid er 
 chimbly in the middle an' er outside doo' in erry 
 room, so he kin run in an' out when dat 'oman 
 tuck a'ter 'im wid dat gre't, big pistol whar she 
 call her Sherlock; kaze he know she'd shoot 'im 
 in er minute. Dat po' man sholy did ha' er hard 
 time. Sometimes when things git too hot fer 'im 
 dar home he'd go off an' stay three er fo' days. 
 When he come back he'd open de front doo' an' 
 fling in his hat. Ef dat 'oman hang dat hat on 
 de peg whar it 'longs, he knows he kin go in an' 
 she ain't guine beat 'im ; but ef she flings dat hat 
 out-doo's he jis' puts hit back on his head an' off 
 he walks ergin ter stay twell she git pleased. 
 
 "Xo wonder when she comes back she brings some 
 er de deble's far' wid her. I b'le'e plenty folks 
 on dis heer yerth is mighty nigh kin ter de deble, 
 dat I does. I knows dem g'rillers wuz. fer er fac'. 
 Deble ain't done many deeds no blacker 'n some 
 
1 2 The Eyrie, 
 
 dey done. I gnine tell ye 'bout de 'mos' outland- 
 ish thing whut happen endurin' de war: Marse 
 Tom done been ter see Miss Nellie, an' tell her ter 
 warn her husban' ter be on de sharp lookout; dat 
 de kentry 'roun' heer swarmin' wid dem g'rillers, 
 an' dey hid in erry woods an' thicket watchin' fer 
 de bufferloes an' guine shoot um on de sly. God 
 A'mighty ! ef dat Jack Gray had er listened ter 
 dat warnin' he might er been libin' ter dis day ! 
 But he dat wentnr'some, he ain't skeered er g'ril- 
 lers er nobody else, dat's de trufe. 
 
 " 'Twa'n't many weeks a'ter dat 'f o' he tuck Miss 
 Nellie ter see his cousin, whut libed t'other side er 
 Newbergun Creek. Dey rid in er open buggy an' 
 started home 'bout four o'clock in de ebenin'. 
 When dey git dar ter de Trunk Bridges at New- 
 bergun Creek, er whole band er g'rillers sprung 
 out an' 'fo' Jack Gray kin raise his han' er open his 
 mouf, dey done en riddled 'im wid bullets. One 
 er dem bullets went th'oo Miss Nellie's hat, an' 
 ernudder one grazed 'er arm. De hoss tuck fright 
 an' run erway, he skeered 'mos' ter def. When 
 Miss Nellie see her husban' drap de reins an' fall 
 back stiff, she jis' flung 'er arms 'roun' his neck, 
 an' hilt 'im in de buggy. De blood gushed frum 
 all dem wounds an' soaked her close an' stained 
 her hands an' face, an' trickled down in er big red 
 puddle in de foot er de buggy. Dat hoss had 
 'longed ter Miss Nellie since she wuz er little gal. 
 He skeered 'mos' outen his senses, but he meek 
 er ^B' line fer de Eyrie, an' ain't stop twell he git 
 back ter his ole home. 
 
 ^^Vhen he git dar ter de big gate he stop so 
 sudent dat he fling Miss Nellie an' Marse Jack out 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 13 
 
 on de ditch bank, den he whicker an' paw de groun'. 
 Marse Tom, settin' readin^ on de front po'ch, an' 
 I workin' in de flower garden close by. We bofe 
 seed dat boss er-flyin' down de road at de same 
 time. Marse Tom flung down dat book an' rnn 
 lack er deer to'ds de big gate what opened in de 
 main road, an' I followed close at his heels. He 
 beat me runnin', an' when I git dar he done had 
 Miss ISTellie in his arms er-wipin' de blood frum 
 'er face wid 'is handkercher. His face 'mos' white 
 ez er sheet, an' all he say is : Tete, tell father, 
 an' go fer er doctor, quick, quick !' He carri'd 
 Miss Xellie in 'is arms lack er baby, ter de bed 
 in her ole room whut nobody ain't sleep in sense 
 she lef. She done faint clean erwav an' lay dar 
 lack she stone dead. Dinah an' Mollie fiyin' eroun' 
 dar gettin' water an' towels, an' Marse Tom bath- 
 in' her hands an' face, when ole Marster come ter 
 de bed an' look at her. He 'gun ter trimble frum 
 head ter foot an' drapt inter er cheer an' kivered 
 'is face wid 'is ban's. Den I flies out dat house, 
 ketches er boss, an' rides bare-back fer Dr. Grimes, 
 whar lib 'bout two mile frum de Eyrie. 
 
 "Ez good luck would have it I fines 'im home, 
 an' back we flies lack de win'. When we gits dar 
 out jumps Dr. Grimes, an' makes his way th'oo 
 er whole pasel er darkies an' white folks gethered 
 roun' Marse Jack. De docter ben's ober dat po' 
 man, an' puts his han' on his ris', den on his heart, 
 den he gits up an' say mighty solum : ^I can't 
 do no good beer. He's stone dead. I'll go in an' 
 see whut kin be done fer de lady.' An' off he 
 starts fer de house. I f oilers 'im inter Miss Nel- 
 lie's room. She done come to an' open her eyes 
 
14 The Eyrie, 
 
 ^bout dis time. De docter teck 'er han' an' ax 
 mighty sof ' : 'Is you hurt ?' She say, 'No, no, not 
 much; but tell me erbout Jack. Is he dead?' 
 
 "De doctor tu'n erway his face, an' say, 'We'll 
 talk erbout him in er minute, you jist drink dis 
 medicine fer me, quick, an' hit well meek you feel 
 better.' She look like she 'mos' addled, but she 
 mine de doctor an' drink de medicine. 
 
 "Den she close her eyes an' say, 'You might jist 
 ez well tell me he is dead ! dead ! I know ! I know !' 
 
 "De doctor bow his head, an' say, 'Yes, my dear, 
 he is dead ; but you mus' be brave fer yo' brother s 
 sake !' Everybody know how good Miss Nellie lub 
 Marse Tom. He settin' on de side er de bed right 
 den holdin' her han'. She fling her arms roun' his 
 neck an' sob an' cry lack her heart clean broke. I 
 follers de doctor outen de room, an' when I gits 
 downstairs dey had done washed an' dressed Marse 
 Jack an' laid 'im out in de parlor. His pore old 
 Mammy standin' o' 'im cryin' an' sobbin', an' ole 
 Marster walkin" in an' out de room givin' orders; 
 he done come to, now he know Miss Nellie ain't 
 dead. 
 
 "Dat po' chile gone ter sleep now, an' Marse 
 Tom settin' by her keepin' watch. 'Long 'bout 
 ten o'clock dat night, when err^^thing still ez er 
 mouse, sich er scream ez I neber shill fergit rung 
 th'oo dat house. Den ernudder an' ernudder un- 
 twell my hair riz on my head. Den I heers Miss 
 Nellie's woice cryin' out, 'Oh, look ! Look ! Look ! 
 Oh, see de blood ! Dar s er bullet in his 
 heart an' in his brain ! he bleeds ! he dies ! 
 see de blood!' Den she swoon erway, cry- 
 in' all dat night; when she come to, she 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 15 
 
 jis' say, 'Oh, blood ! blood ! blood !^ Den she ring 
 ^er ban's an' scream ergin, an' ain't know nutten 
 else. She ain't eben know when we car'y Marse 
 Jack erway ter bury him, she gone clean 'stracted. 
 Pore Miss Xellie ! Fer days an' weeks she linger 
 dar wid de brain feber, Marse Tom an' her Pa 
 watchin' by her night an' day. She ain't neber 
 speak er wud ter ole Marster er nobody, she clean 
 gone onten her head an' ain't talk 'bout nuthen but 
 de gTillers an' blood. But jis' 'fo' she dies, she 
 open her eyes an' look up in Marse Tom's face, 
 an' say wid er smile : 
 
 " ^Tom, take me in yo' boat on de riber ; de wa- 
 ter am smoove, de win' blows so fresh, an' de wa- 
 ter-lilies gleam so white. Take me, please, Tom, 
 I so tired, I wants ter res'.' 
 
 "Marse Tom ben' his head an' kiss her on de 
 cheek, den she shet her eyes, an' ain't neber open 
 um in dis worl' no mo'. 
 
 "I neber shill fergit dem sad an' lonesome days 
 whut follered de death er Miss Xellie. Hit break 
 my heart ter see pore Marse Tom. Dar ain't no 
 music fer him no mo' in de song er birds, an' no 
 joy in de sunshine, kaze de music an^ de sunshine 
 er his young life am gone fereber. 
 
 "He tell ole Marster he cannot stay at de ole 
 home no longer; he mus' drown his trouble in the 
 roar er de cannon, in de 'citement an' thunder ub 
 de war. So erway he goes ter jine de Confederate 
 regiment whar campin' at Woodville, den erway ter 
 de war once mo'. 
 
 "Den I tries ter cheer up ole Marster, an' he 
 'peared ter keep up his sperits mighty good, twell 
 we heerd dat Eichmon' had fell. He know Marse 
 
1 6 The Eyrie, 
 
 Tom dar in de thick er de fight, an' he 'mos' 
 grebe ter def . When de news come dat Marse Tom 
 wuz killed, de pore ole man jis' reeled an' fell. I 
 sartin he clean dead; but presney he come to an' 
 look eroun' an' say ? '^All gone ! all gone ! My 
 children, my kentry, everything!" 
 
 "I say, wid de tears tricklin' down my face, 
 ^Dat's so, Marster, but you got pore, ole, no-'count 
 Pete, whut lubs vou, an' I don't keer ef he am 
 bound er free, he guine stan' by 3^ou twell yo' head 
 er hisn am laid ter res' under de sod.' He tuck 
 my hand in hisn, an' say, 
 
 " ''Good, faithful Pete ! I thanks you, an' lubs 
 you, but my ole heart am broke.' 
 
 "I see he spoke de trufe. But he say he can't 
 die twell Marse Tom is brung home, an' hurried 
 by de side er Miss Nellie. 
 
 "So jist ez soon ez we kin we goes ter Eich- 
 mon,' an' er frien' er Marse Tom's whut fought 
 in dat las' battle wid him, an' writ ole Marster how 
 brave he wuz, goes wid us ter Marse Tom's grave. 
 'Twuz er sad task we had, but we tuck dat coffin, 
 whut hilt all dat wuz lef er brave Marse Tom back 
 to de Eyrie, an' hurried him wid de rest er de Shir- 
 leys. 
 
 "N'ot many months a'ter dat we laid Marse Joe 
 by his side. Den de place whar wuz his home, 
 an' whar he 'speck guine ter be de home er his 
 chillun an' grand' chillun, wuz sold, an' fell inter 
 de ban's er strangers. 
 
 "When I sits dar on my doo'step ub er ebenin', 
 an' on bright moonlight nights, I kin see de toom'- 
 stone whut marks Miss Nellie's grave. It am un- 
 der de weepin'-willer not fer frum de riber. She 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 17 
 
 an' Marse Tom sleeps dar side by side. Dar de 
 wild roses an' de jassamine blooms, an' de birds 
 build dey nes' an' dey sing dey glad songs in de 
 springtime. 
 
 "Hit's er sweet spot ter rest in when yo' body 
 an' yo' soul am weary; when yo' heart am broke, 
 an' de light er dis worl' am gone out. Yes, sar, 
 hit's er sweet spot ter rest in." 
 
1 8 The Eyrie, 
 
 II. 
 
 THE NAG'S HEAD PICTUEE OF THEO- 
 
 DOSIA BUEE. 
 
 The sand dunes of l^orth Carolina have long 
 been famous as the scene of marine tragedies. The 
 bleaching ribs of some of the stateliest craft that 
 ever plowed the deep bear testimony to the ravagps 
 of old ocean. The English merchantman, the Por- 
 tugese galleon, the Dutch brigantine, the Spanish 
 treasure ship, the French corvette, the Norwegian 
 barque, representatives of every maritime nation 
 on the globe, are scattered over the beach, from 
 Hatteras to Cape Fear, their grisly skeletons pro- 
 truding from the sands like antedilu\ian monsters 
 in some geological bed. 
 
 This narrow strip of sand, winding like a yel- 
 low ribbon between the inland sounds and the sea, 
 presents a curious study to the geologist. For 
 years it has been gradually sinking, and at the same 
 time becoming narrower, until now its average 
 width is not more than a mile; and, the libertine 
 waters of the great sea not seldom rush across 
 the frail barrier to embrace those of the Albe- 
 marle. 
 
 The slender divide has not always been able to 
 withstand the matchless flood, which has, in times 
 of unusual commotion, literally cut a pathway 
 through the yielding sands. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 19 
 
 These form inlets, of which Oregon, Hatteras 
 and 'New are the most important. Through the 
 first Burnside's fleet of warships defiled on its way 
 to the bombardment of Roanoke Island. 
 
 The channels are constantly changing, and skill- 
 ful pilots are required to guide vessels safely over 
 the bar. 
 
 The ornitholoorist mav here find much to in- 
 terest him, and the conchologist revel in a para- 
 dise of shells. But the nautilus, pale and pearly, 
 and the delicate blush of the sea conch, have small 
 influence on the rude nature of the native ^'hanker." 
 Isolated from the world on this barren waste of 
 shifting sand the 'Tjanker" of a hundred 3'ears ago 
 was almost a barbarian. His savage instincts not 
 only made him consider all flotsam and Jetsam his 
 lawful property, but induced him to use every 
 means to lure vessels ashore for purposes of plun- 
 der. And when a wreck occurred, the wreckers 
 held high carnival. The sparse population turned 
 out '^'^en masse/' and with demoniac yells, mur- 
 dered without remorse the hapless victims who es- 
 caped the raging surf. Nags Head, a favorite sum- 
 mer resort along the coast, was named from a habit 
 the "bankers" had of hobbling a horse, suspend- 
 ing a lantern from its neck, and walking it up 
 and down the beach on stormy nights, impressing 
 the mariner with the belief that a vessel was rid- 
 ing safely at anchor. Through this device many 
 a good ship has gone down and much valuable 
 booty secured to the land pirates. 
 
 The "'bankers" of to-day are different beings 
 from their ancestors of a century ago. Fellowship 
 with enlightened people has had a humanizing in- 
 
20 The Eyrie, 
 
 flnence, and they are now good and useful citizens. 
 The North Carolina coast is provided with three 
 first-class lighthouses, Hatteras, Whale's Head, and 
 Body's Island. 
 
 Body's Island is no longer an island. Nags 
 Head Inlet which formed its northern boundary, 
 having been completely closed up by the encroach- 
 ing sands. • 
 
 The dunes, for the most part barren of vegeta- 
 tion, have in some places a stunted growth of for- 
 est trees, and in others large marshes covered with 
 a rank growth of coarse grass, on which herds of 
 wild cattle and "banks ponies" graze. 
 
 In the winter of 1812 there drifted ashore at Eatty 
 Hawk, a few miles below Nags Head, a small 
 pilot boat with all saijs set and the rudder lashed. 
 There was no sign of violence or bloodshed ; the 
 boat was in perfect condition, but entirely deserted. 
 The small table in the cabin had been spread for 
 some repast, which remained undisturbed. There 
 were several handsome silk dresses, a vase of wax 
 flowers with a glass covering, a nautilus shell beau- 
 tifully carved, and hanging on the wall of the cabin 
 was the portrait of a young and beautiful woman. 
 This picture was an oil painting on polished ma- 
 hogany, twenty inches in length and enclosed in "a 
 frame richly gilded. The face was patrician and 
 refined : the expression of the dark eyes, proud and 
 haughty; the hair dark auburn, curling and abun- 
 dant. A white bodice cut low in the neck and 
 richly adorned with lace, revealed a glimpse of 
 the drooping shoulders, and the snowy bust, un- 
 confined by corset. 
 
 The wreckers who boarded the boat possessed 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 21 
 
 themselves of everything of vahie on board. The 
 picture, wax flowers, nautilus shell and silk dresses 
 fell into the possession of an illiterate banker 
 woman, who attached no especial value to them. 
 
 This picture, which has since attracted so much 
 attention, hung on the wall of a rude cabin among 
 the Xorth Carolina hills for fifty-seven years. In 
 the year 1869, it fell into the possession of the 
 late Dr. William G. Pool, a prominent North Caro- 
 lina physician. Dr. Pool was a man of marked 
 individuality. He had the tastes of an antiquarian, 
 was literary, cultured, and noted for his remark- 
 able conversational gifts. While summering at 
 Nags Head, he was called upon to visit profession- 
 ally the old banker woman referred to above. He 
 was successful in his treatment of the case, and 
 knowing the circumstances of his patient, would 
 accept no payment for his services. In her grati- 
 tude for his kindness, the old woman insisted upon 
 his accepting "as a gift," the portrait hanging 
 on the wall of her cabin. When questioned con- 
 cerning its history, she related the facts above men- 
 tioned. This she did with apparent reluctance, 
 possibly suppressing many interesting details that 
 might have thrown more light upon the subject. 
 Her husband had been one of the wreckers who 
 boarded the pilot boat, and the picture and other 
 articles referred to had been his share of the 
 spoils. Her story was, that the wreckers supposed 
 the boat to have been boarded by pirates, and .that 
 passengers and crew had been made to "walk the 
 plank." The picture and its strange history be- 
 came a subject of much interest and conjecture to 
 Dr. Pool. Artists pronounced it a masterpiece, 
 
22 • The Eyrie, 
 
 and the "unmistakable portrait of some woman of 
 patrician birth. 
 
 Chancing one day to pick up an old magazine 
 in which appeared a picture of Aaron Burr, Dr. 
 Pool was forcibly struck by the strong resemblance 
 between it and the portrait in question. Like a 
 flash it occurred to him that this might be a like- 
 ness of Theodosia, the ill-fated daughter of Aaron 
 Burr. Eagerly he compared dates and facts, until 
 he became thoroughly convinced that he had found 
 a clue to that mysterious disappearance, which is 
 one of the most awful tragedies of history. A brief 
 account of this discovery was published in the New 
 York "Sun," and immediatelv letters innumerable 
 were received by him asking for more particulars. 
 
 Photographs of the portrait were sent to the 
 numerous members of the Burr and Edwards fam- 
 ilies, and almost without exception the likeness was 
 pronounced to be that of Theodosia Burr. Charles 
 Burr Todd, the author, and Mrs. Stella Drake 
 Knappin, descendants respectively of the Burr 
 and Edwards families, visited Dr. PooFs residence 
 on Pasquotank river for the purpose of examining 
 the portrait. They were both convinced that it 
 was a likeness of Theodosia Burr. 
 
 The wife of Col. \Aaieeler of Washington, D. C, 
 who is a daughter of Sully, the famous portrait 
 painter, and is herself an artist, compared a photo 
 of the ISTags Head picture with a likeness of Theo- 
 dosia Burr in her possession. She at once per- 
 ceived that both features and expression were iden- 
 tical. 
 
 There was probably no woman in America at 
 the time of Theodosia Burr's death, more univer- 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 23 
 
 sally know and admired than she. Her high social 
 rank, her beauty, her genius, her accomplishments, 
 as well as her heroic devotion to her father in the 
 dark days of his disgrace and banishment, had 
 made her a prominent figure and had won for her 
 the admiration of thousands. 
 
 WTien Aaron Burr upon his return from exile 
 sent for his daughter to visit him in iSFew York, 
 she decided to make the voyage by sea. Her health 
 had been almost completely wrecked by grief over 
 her father's disgrace, and the recent death of her 
 only child, young Aaron Burr Alston. It was 
 thought that a sea voyage might prove beneficial. 
 She accordingly set sail from Georgetown, S. C, 
 in the "Patriot," a small pilot boat, December 
 30th, 1812. Days and weeks passed, but Aaron 
 Burr waited in vain for the arrival of his daughter. 
 Months and years rolled away and still no tidings 
 came. The "Patriot" and all on board had com- 
 pletely vanished from the face of the earth, and 
 the mystery of its disappearance remained un- 
 solved for more than half a century. 
 
 Governor Alston did not long survive the loss 
 of his beloved wife, and Aaron Burr, in speaking, 
 years afterwards of his daughter's mysterious fate, 
 said that this event had separated him from the 
 human race. 
 
 Let us now compare dates and facts : A pilot 
 boat drifts ashore during the winter of 1812 at 
 Kitty Hawk, a few miles below Xags Head. There 
 are silk dresses in the cabin, and other indica- 
 tions that some lady of wealth and refinement has 
 been on board. There is a portrait on the wall 
 of the cabin that has been pronounced by artists 
 
24 The Eyric, 
 
 and members of her family to be a likeness of 
 Theodosia Burr. 
 
 The "Patriot" was lost during the winter of 
 1812. On the voyage from Georgetown, S. C, 
 to New York, it would pass the North Carolina 
 coast. The sea at this time was infested by pirates. 
 A band of these bold buccaneers may have boarded 
 the little vessel and compelled passengers and crew 
 to "walk the plank." Becoming alarmed at the 
 appearance of some Government cruiser, they may, 
 from motives of prudence, have abandoned their 
 prize. 
 
 This theory is not mere conjecture. Years ago 
 two criminals executed in Norfolk, Va., are re- 
 ported as having testified that they had belonged 
 to a piratical crew who boarded the "Patriot," and 
 compelled every soul on board to "walk the plank." 
 The same confession was made years subsequently 
 by a mendicant dying in a Michigan alms- 
 house. This man said he would never forget the 
 beautiful face of Theodosia Burr, as it sank be- 
 neath the waves, nor how eloquently she pleaded 
 for her life, promising the pirates pardon and a 
 liberal reward if they would spare her. But they 
 were relentless, and she went to her doom with 
 so dauntless and calm a spirit, that even the most 
 hardened pirates were touched. 
 
 I cannot vouch for the truth of these confes- 
 sions which have appeared from time to time in 
 print, I only introduce them as collateral evidence 
 in support of the banker woman's story. The "Pa- 
 triot" was supposed to have been wrecked off the 
 coast of Hatteras during a terrific storm which 
 occurred soon after it set sail. This^ however, was 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 25 
 
 mere conjecture which has never been substantiated 
 by the slightest proof. 
 
 It is not improbable that the "Patriot" during 
 a night of storm was lured ashore by the decoy 
 light at N'ags Head, and that passengers and crew 
 fell into the hands of the land pirates in wait- 
 ing, who possessed themselves of the boat and 
 ever}i:hing of value it contained. 
 
 This also, of course, is mere conjecture; but the 
 all-important fact remains that a pilot boat went 
 ashore at Kitty Hawk during the winter of 1812, 
 and that in the cabin of this boat was a portrait 
 of Theodosia Burr. 
 
26 The Eyric, 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE PAST. 
 
 The sun had set and the shadows of night were 
 beginning to fall. 
 
 In the handsome drawing-room of a magnificent 
 brownstone mansion sat a woman of exquisite 
 grace and beauty. All women envied her, all men 
 admired her. 
 
 Fortune had lavished upon her its choicest gifts : 
 beauty, talent, w^ealth, position ; and yet there were 
 times when nothing seemed to her of any value, 
 when her life seemed empty and desolate, her heart 
 like lead. 
 
 Her husband surrounded her with every luxury 
 that immense wealth could purchase; he gratified 
 her every expressed desire; and yet he seemed to 
 her as cold and incapable of love as the snow-capped 
 summits of the Alps. 
 
 Long ago she had been loved, yes, loved with 
 a passionate devotion such as few women possess, 
 and she had not valued it. 
 
 It seemed to her now that she never could value 
 anything else. 
 
 As she sat by the open window and watched the 
 stars come out one by one in the summer sky, she 
 thought of a summer long-ago, and a mist of tears 
 blinded her eyes. 
 
And Other Southern Stones. 27 
 
 She saw long stretches of yellow sand, and hills 
 gleaming white in the moonlight. She heard the 
 murmur of the sea, the lash of the waves against 
 the shore, that sound which once was music, which 
 now seemed a dirge. She saw herself a young, 
 happy, thoughtless girl, vain of her beauty, proud 
 of her conquests. And always by her side she saw 
 the man she had loved, and who had loved her : 
 the man whose genius had charmed all hearts ; 
 whose personal beauty, magnetism, grace, had made 
 him seem to her a kins: amono- men. Xever would 
 she forget the night, when false to herself and false 
 to him, she had denied the love that even at that 
 moment was consuming her heart, and sent him 
 from her, embittered, hopeless, crushed. 
 ♦ And then came the chime of wedding bells, and 
 she saw herself a bride. She had married a man 
 whose almost fabulous wealth had dazzled her, 
 and blinded her to all sense of right and duty. 
 
 The scales had fallen from her CA^es too late, 
 and the Dead-Sea fruit had turned to ashes on her 
 lips. 
 
 Yain and foolish dream, that there can be any 
 true happiness in a woman's life where love is 
 not. 
 
 In the midst of luxury and power she often felt 
 herself more wretched than the beggar who came 
 to her door for alms. 
 
 Her heart, her very life was consumed by a 
 vain regret, a passionate remorse. 
 
 As she sat in her richly-furnished room, instead 
 of the luxury around her, she saw to-night that lit- 
 tle village by the sea, where she spent one sweet 
 summer long ago. Scene after scene rose before 
 
28 The Eyrie, 
 
 her, until, with a stifled sob, she buried her face 
 in her hands. 
 
 Just then she heard the notes of a guitar, and 
 a sweet girlish voice was wafted to her from a 
 balcony near by: 
 
 "Could you come hack to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
 In the old likeness that I knew, 
 I would he so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true." 
 
 A tremor ran through her frame. 
 
 As she listened she saw herself standing by a 
 grave. Autumn winds were sighing; autumn 
 leaves strewed the ground. Deep down under 
 those leaves and those clods lay the form of the 
 man who had loved her, and whose life she had 
 wrecked. 
 
 So still ! so still ! so dark ! Shut away forever 
 from the noises of the busy world whose bright- 
 ness he had loved so well. 
 
 As these memories thronged upon her, the ten^ 
 der strains of the music died away. 
 
 Suddenly she heard an approaching footstep. 
 She turned and saw her husband standing by her 
 side, and felt thankful that in the semi-darkness 
 he could not see her face. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 29 
 
 IV. 
 
 JOE PIXETOP'S ^^MARSE JEEMES/' 
 
 A TKUE CHARACTER SKETCH. 
 
 '^LESS yo' soul, Mr. Eoberson, yo' sholy is 
 kin ter Marse Jeemes. I sees de blemish er him 
 all over you, frum dem two wrinkles in yo' for'ad, 
 an' dat stiff black hair ter dem sleepy gray eyes, 
 what's just ez much lack Marse Jeemeses ez two 
 black-eyed peas. ISTobody can't 'spute you's some 
 er our folks. I knowed dat 'reckly I sot meh eyes 
 on ye, 'fo' ye done git dar ter te doo' an' specified 
 who you wuz. Joe Pinetop ain't got no I'arnin', 
 but 'tickler hard ter fool, now, don't you for- 
 git it." 
 
 I considered it a doubtful compliment to be 
 told I resembled my maternal uncle, whose por- 
 trait, hanging in my mother's bed-chamber, had 
 attracted my childish curiosity twenty years ago. 
 The face, which I could even yet vividly recall, 
 was certainlv not that of an Adonis. But there 
 was something peculiar in the expression of the 
 eyes and the shape of the head that had always 
 proved an attraction to me, and piqued my cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 I lost my mother when I was yet in the nursery, 
 
30 The Eyrie, 
 
 and my father survived her but a few years. I 
 often questioned the latter about my Uncle James 
 Gray, as I sat studying the portrait during many 
 an idle hour, with the eager interest of a boy of 
 ten. My father always assured me that he knew 
 very little about my mother's brother, who lived 
 far away from our Western home, "Away down 
 South in Dixie." 
 
 I resolved even then that when I grew to man- 
 hood I would visit my mother's old home, and ac- 
 cumulate all the information obtainable concern- 
 ing my ancestors on that side of the house. And 
 I was especially determined to investigate the his- 
 tory of the original of the attractive portrait. So, 
 after years of waiting, I found myself in the Old 
 Xorth state, as the guest of Cyrus Roberson, my 
 mother's first cousin. I soon succeeded in ob- 
 taining many interesting items of family history. 
 Old bibles and other records furnished me with 
 much-desired information: but it was not until 
 I made the acquaintance of Uncle Joe Pinetop, 
 a former slave of Uncle James Gray, that I found 
 the "open sesame" I was seeking. 
 
 One delightful afternoon late in October, I had 
 the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Uncle 
 Joe at his own home, a rude cabin of two rooms, 
 set well back from the main road in the midst of 
 a flourishing pine thicket. The old negro sat doz- 
 ing in his open doorway, when the clicking of the 
 gate-latch made by my entrance aroused him. 
 Never was guest more hospitably received, and 
 after a few preliminaries, I made known my er- 
 rand. 
 
 "So you wants me to 'late ter you all I 'mem- 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 31 
 
 bers 'bout Marse Jeemes^ does you, Mr. Roberson? 
 Well, Marse Jeemes sholy was curious, dat's de 
 trufe ! He couldn't walk er blessed step 'dout dat 
 walkin'-stick er hisn : but, bless yo' soul ! hit neber 
 t'uched de ground, but jis' stuck out frura under 
 his arm, one half befo' an' t'other half behin', 
 jis' lack he guine punch somebody's eyes out. 
 
 "An' curiser'n dat, he couldn't see er wink 'dout 
 dem gole-rim spectacles er hisn, what I don't b'le'e 
 he eber is looked th'oo sence he wuz born. Dev 
 alus sot on de top er dat bal' head er hisn, lack 
 he tryin' ter ha' fo' eyes inste'd er two. 
 
 "Dat nigger boy, Jake, whut belongst ter 'im, 
 he wus alus full er his devilment. One day he 
 ups an' hides dem gole-rim spectacles; done stole 
 um offen Marse Jeemes's head, when he wuz 'sleep 
 in de big arm-cheer. Lord ! dem eyes w'an't good 
 an' open 'fo' dem spectacles wuz missed, an' Marse 
 Jeemes wuz jam 'stracted. He had every nigger 
 on de place er lokin' an' er s'archin' fer em high 
 an' low, in de house an' out doo's one whole day 
 'fo' dat poky Jake fotch um back an' slipped um 
 in Marse Jeemes's pocket on de sly. Den dat ras- 
 cal say, ''Marster, is you s'arched all yo' pockets 
 good ? I do b'le'e I see dem spectacles dis precious 
 minute in dat coattail pocket er yorn.' Eoun' flops 
 Marse Jeemes, and grabs in dat pocket, an' she' 
 'nuff, dar be de spectacles. Den he git so mad 
 he cuss de whole plantation blue — all but dat foxy 
 nigger Jake, what he give er gole dollar, kaze he 
 say dat boy got mo' sense an' wuth mo' 'n de whole 
 bilin's un us put together. 
 
 "But what tickled me wuz ter see Marse Jeemes 
 tryin' fer ter read, feelin' on top er 'is head fur 
 
32 The Eyrie, 
 
 dem spectacles, den cussin' an' flin'in' down book 
 a'ter book an' paper a'ter paper. N'ot de fust 
 blessed word kin dat man make out twell dem 
 spectacles comes ter light an' is sot in one tickler 
 spot on the top er dat bal' head er hisn. I knowed 
 his eyes wuz good ez er baby's, an' I thought I 
 should bust dat day, when I seed he can't read 
 none an' how 'stracted he wuz 'dout dem spectacles." 
 
 Uncle Joe rocked himself back and forth, and 
 laughed until the tears trickled down his withered 
 cheeks at the recollection of this ludicrous scene. 
 As soon as he could control himself he resumed: 
 "Marse Jeemes wuz er riglor sport in his young 
 days. He had de mos' fine clo's an' gin de mos' 
 good dinners you ebber see. He had piles er 
 money, an' more 'n er hundred head er darkies. 
 I tell you, sar, he wuz some er de quality, he wuz ! 
 My mouf right nachly waters when I gits ter study- 
 in' 'bout dem wine parties, when de fine silver 
 an' de cut-glass wuz brung out, an' de young gents 
 frum town would come out on hors'back er by the 
 kerriage load, an' eat an' drink an' play cards an' 
 
 cut up Lord ! ef dem wa'n't good ole times, 
 
 I'll hush! 
 
 "But de older Marse Jeemes git de curiser he 
 gits, dat's sartin. He did' ha' no use fer women 
 folks nur chillun, 'peared lack he jis' 'spised um 
 a'ter he got ole. 
 
 "One day he wuz in er powerful good humor an' 
 I ups an' axes 'im whut's de reason he ain't nebber 
 git mar'ied. He jis' laugh an' say, 'Kase I got 
 too much sense, Joe Pinetop, dat's de reason. 
 Womens is all fools, every last one er um, an' if 
 dar be one thing in dis worl' dat I 'bominates its 
 
And Other Southern Stones. 33 
 
 er fool/ says he. Den he laugh ergin, an' say: 
 " ^Bnt twice in my life I come mighty nigh 
 bein' er fool mj'self. Yes, Joe, when I wuz er 
 young chap I got it inter my head, dat I wuz in 
 lub wid er mighty pretty lady: but I can't make 
 up my mind if I guine ax 'er ter be my wife. One 
 day ez I wuz ridin' 'long de road, comin' home, I 
 gits ter studyin' 'bout dat young lady, and try- 
 in' fer ter 'side if I wants her or don't want her. 
 I alus knowed dat bosses got pasel er sense, an' 
 thinks I, ole Xero's got heap mo' sense an' I is, 
 60 I'll let him 'side dis matter fer me. So when 
 I gits ter de fork in de road ober yonder, whar 
 one road leads home an' t'other ter my sweetheart's 
 house, I gives ole Nero de reins, an' tells him ter 
 settle dis hur business fer me once an' fer all: 
 dat ef it is best fer me ter marry dis 'oman ter 
 trot smack up ter her doo', an' I would 'lite an' 
 pop the question. But ef dat 'oman guine pull 
 my hair, an' chunk my hat out doo's, an' cut up 
 lack ole Scratch, says I, Xero, ef dat's de way dat 
 'oman guine do, don't you go nigh her: you jest 
 make er B line fer home; now you heers me! 
 An' bless yo' soul, Joe Pinetop, dat boss fotch 
 me home; so dat broke up de co'tin'.' 
 
 " 'Encose dat boss guine home,' says I, Vhar 
 he know all dat corn an' fodder waitin' fer 'im 
 ter eat. He had nuff sense fer dat sho', don't 
 I calls 'im er tickler blockhead, dat I does.' 
 
 " ^Xow, Joe Pinetop, you jis' hole yo' tounge,' 
 says Marse Jeemes, 'an' I'll tell vou erbout mv 
 f other sweetheart, de one whut nigh 'bout kotch 
 me, sho' 'nuff. I had gitten' my head sot on de 
 beautifulest gal in de whole kentry dis time, an' 
 
34 The Eyrie, 
 
 thinks I, now I's in lub widout no mistake! So 
 eway I rides one cole day in December ter ax 'er 
 ter be my wife. I finds her settin' all by her- 
 self, right before' er bright, cracklin' wood far', an' 
 lookin' jest ez fresh an' sweet ez er June rosebud. 
 I sot down close beside 'er an' 'gun ter talk mighty 
 sweet. Bless yo' soul, Joe, I wuz jest on the p'int 
 er poppin' de question, when in blurts dat con- 
 founded daddy 'er hern, flops hisse'f down iner 
 cheer an' 'gins ter talk erbout fattenin' hogs on 
 black-eyed peas. I wuz so disgumsted I flung 
 dat little white han' whar wuz restin' in mine 
 eway, an' out I goes, givin' dat doo' er slam-bang 
 a'ter me — mad as thunder. I'll go ter ole Nick,' 
 says I, * 'f o' I ax any 'oman to be my wife whut 
 ez got sich er fool fer er father ez ter disinterupt 
 er coteship, talkin' 'bout fattenin' hogs on black- 
 eyed peas. 
 
 " ''An' now, Joe Pinetop,' says he, 'you kin bet 
 yo' bottom dollar I ain't neber guine make my- 
 self er fool 'bout nair nother 'oman under de sun. 
 I done tuck my oath,' says he. An', bless de 
 Lord ! Marse Jeemes ain't nebber broke dat oath, 
 nuther. None de gals ain't kotch him. An' I 
 ain't right sho' which one wuz de luckies' — Marse 
 Jeemes er de gals. 
 
 "I don't speck you knows, Mr. Roberson, dat 
 Marse Jeemes wuz er sho' 'nuff doctor 'fo' de war. 
 Yes, . sar, he git his lisence an' wuz ridin' all o' 
 de kenty to see all de sick folks, in 'tickler de big 
 bugs. He wuz gittin' 'long mighty good, an' mak- 
 in' piles er money kourin' er whole pasel er sick 
 folks, an' his friends all spresified dat he guine 
 climb ter de top er de ladder an' make er big name. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 35 
 
 An^ 'fo' de Lord ! I b'le'e he'd er done dat thing 
 ef it hadn't been fer dat cussed hoss' er hisn, 
 ole Nero. I'll tell yo' how 't wuz: One night 
 in October, when de moon wnz ez bright 
 ez day, he vniz sont fer, ter wisit er mighty sick 
 man, what libbed down on De Pint, 'bout ten 
 mile eway. Marse Jeemes tnck er notion ter go 
 on hossback, so I saddled ole Nero, an' eway dey 
 goes, ez lively ez er cricket. Dat man wnz pow- 
 erful sick, an' Marse Jeemes can't start home twell 
 a'ter midnight. Den de moon done gone down, 
 an' der ain't no stars, an' Marse Jeemes wuz 'tickler 
 skerry a'ter dark. He can't see which way he 
 gwine, so he jis' fling de reins ter ole ISTero, an' 
 tell 'im ter pick 'is way de best he kin, kaze he 
 feels lack he done got ter de bad place or somewhar 
 wus. 
 
 "Presney, ole Nero stop kerplump, an' dat 
 'peared ter agerwate some dogs whar wuz hidin' 
 somewhar 'roun', an' dey made er outdacious hub- 
 bub, barkin' an' er clankin' der chains. Marse 
 Jeemes wuz 'tickler skeered er dogs, an' his hair 
 riz on his head. He 'spected eVry blessed min- 
 ute he guine git tore all ter flinders. He whipped 
 ole Nero an' put spurs ter 'im, but dat outlandish 
 hoss wouldn't budge er peg, he done made up his 
 mind he ain't guine one step fudder. 
 
 ''Long to'ds day Marse Jeemes 'gun ter git 
 mighty sleepy, an' he skeered he might drap ter 
 sleep an' tumble offen dat hoss an' break 'is neck. 
 So down he gits an' stre'ches hisse'f on er pile 
 er dry lebes in de bottom ub er big ditch, an' 
 purty soon he draps ter sleep. An' dar he sleep 
 smack twell de sun shine in his face an' woke 'im 
 
^6 The Eyrie, 
 
 up. Den up he jumps an^ rubs his eyes an' looks 
 eroun'. Bless de Lord ! Ef he wa'n't right befo' 
 his own gate, an^ dem dogs what jam skeered de 
 life outen ^im wuz his own dogs, ole Nip an' ole 
 Trip. 
 
 "Marse Jeemes look at dat house an' dem dogs, 
 an' den he wheel eroun' an' look at dat ditch an' 
 dat bed er lebes. Den he swar dat everybody in 
 de whole kingdom might die an' go ter de debble, 
 he wa'n't nebher guine practice medicine no mo'. 
 So dat settled de doctor business. 
 
 "You see dat tree yander, Mr. Roberson? Dat 
 wuz Marse Jeemes's parlor, whar he hide when 
 he want ter read an' keep cool in the summertime. 
 He'd climb up dar an' set half er day sometimes, 
 hid 'mongst all dem lebes. When he seed any 
 company comin' whut he wants ter see, down he'd 
 come, lack er eel; but ef he don't want ter see 
 um, he sont Jake ter de gate ter tell de folks dat 
 he gone clean eway, an' no tellin' when he git back. 
 
 "Marse Jeemes had a heep er book-rarnin', but 
 he didn't ha' much sense. He say de sun am 
 cole ez er iceberg, say he know dat kaze de nigher 
 you gits ter it de colder you gits : dat on de tops 
 er de high mountains de snow don't nebber melt. 
 
 "Dat sot me to studyin'. Thinks I dat sounds 
 mighty reasonable, but when I thinks erbout how 
 it feels to wuck out in de corn-fiel's in de July 
 sun, an' feel it brilin' down on my head an' jamby 
 cookin' my brains, thinks I, ef dat sun am cole, I 
 don't want ter feel nuffin' what's hot. 
 
 "Marse Jeemes wouldn't talk ter nobody 'dout 
 dey sot mighty still, an' paid 'tickler 'tention ter 
 him. Ef dey 'gun ter rock er fidget erbout, he 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 37 
 
 would stop right short an' call urn fools, say dey 
 git his brains all stirred up. Hit didn't take 
 much ter git Marse Jeemes's brains stirred up ! 
 
 "I tole you he ain't got no 'pinion er women 
 folks. One day he tryin' ter set me ergin um; 
 he 'gun ter quote scriptur' an' sich lack. He tell 
 me dat St. Paul say in de Bible dat 'oman am 
 de weaker wessel, an' den he say dat's so, dat dey 
 ain't got no sense an' no strength an' ain't no 
 ^count, no how. 
 
 ^'Dat kinder riled me, an' I ups an' says, I 
 ain't guine ter 'spute St. Paul no way nur fashion, 
 but dis I will say, dat ef 'oman be de weaker wes- 
 sel, I tell 3'ou, sar, she carries er full sail. 
 
 *'l wuz studyin' right den 'bout my wife, Xancy. 
 I knowed mighty good when dat 'oman git her 
 head sot on doin' suppen I sprecify she slian't 
 do, I might git ez mad ez thunder an' turn de 
 house upside down, but dat ain't 'sturb her none; 
 she guine have her way jist de same. 
 
 "Dat weak, little wessel wid er full sail ain't 
 guine let all my stormin' an' blowin' capsize her, 
 wuth er cent; she guine sail right whar she boun', 
 'dout axin' no odds er Joe Pinetop, dat's sartin." 
 
 This reflection seemed to be highly gratifying 
 to Uncle Joe; he chuckled over it in great delight. 
 He resumed : "I alus shall believe Marse Jeemes 
 wuz erbout half cracked. One day he sont for 
 Nancy, an' tell her he 'mos' dead, dat he de b'le'e 
 he dyin' sho 'nuff. Off I goes post-haste fer Dr. 
 Jones. Wliile I gone Marse Jeemes tell Nancv 
 he so nigh dead he can't talk no mo', dat he speech- 
 less. When Dr. Jones come, Nancy tells him 
 whut Marse Jeemes say, an' den de doctor goes 
 
38 The Eyrie, 
 
 to de bed an' axes 'im some questions. Marse 
 Jeemes jist shake his head, his tongue done stiff. 
 Dr. Jones 'zamines ^im good, an' den he turn ter 
 Nancy an' say : ^Dis is er mighty sick man ; sum- 
 pen must be done at once. Nancy, go make me 
 a big mustard plaster, an' fetch it here quick.^ 
 
 "When Nancy fotch dat plaster de doctor tied 
 it tight eroun' Marse Jeemes's body wid strips 
 er cloth. Den he sont Nancy outen de room, tuck 
 er book, an' sot do^Ti by er window ter read, an* 
 ain't pay no 'tention ter Marse Jeemes. When 
 dat mustard 'gun ter burn purty bad Marse Jeemes, 
 he 'gun ter fidget an' fling his arms erbout, but 
 Dr. Jones 'ten' lack he ain't take no notice er dat. 
 Presney dat mustard git too much fer Marse 
 Jeemes. He can't stand it no longer, so he jumps 
 right up in bed an' hollers out at de top er his 
 lungs: ^Doctor, for de Lord's sake, take dis con- 
 f-eunded thing offen me, I's burnin' up.' 
 
 "Den Dr. Jones flung back his head an' laugh 
 fit ter kill hisse'f, an' Marse Jeemes cut up lack 
 he gone clean 'stracted. 
 
 "Presney Dr. Jones say, 'Well, Nancy, come an 
 take ofl de mustard plaster, it have done its work, 
 it have gi'n speech ter de dumb an' brung de dead 
 ter life !' Den he 'mos' split his sides er laffin.' 
 I seed de doctor know Marse Jeemes wa'n't sick 
 sho' 'nuff, he jist play in' 'possum. 
 
 "But ez long ez Marse Jeemes lib, ef you want 
 to see him riled an' heer him cuss, you just 'gin 
 ter talk erbout dat mustard plaster. 
 
 "Pore ole Marse Jeemes ! 'Fo' de war he wuz 
 one er de big bugs, an' had piles an' piles er 
 money; but a' ter he los' his money an' darkies, he 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 39 
 
 come down might}' po'. His head wuz stuffed full 
 er book-r'arnin', an' dar wa'n't no room in dar 
 fer no commonsense. He say he don't want none 
 er dat stuff, dat er raccoon got jest ez much com- 
 mensense ez anvbod}'. (He got morn Marse 
 Jeemes, dat's de trufe !) 
 
 "Pole ole ^larster ! I wonders whar he be an' 
 whut he doin' sense he ceasted. He say he 'spect 
 ter spen' his time studyin' de stars, jis' sportin' 
 'roun frum one ter t'other. He 'clar's he's guine 
 turn ter dust, ter be sartin, but dat dust guine 
 turn ter flowers an' weeds, an' de potter-carriers 
 guine bottle some uv it up an' sell it ter sick folks. 
 He sprecify dat nuffin' ain't nebber guine die she' 
 'nuff, hit jest guine turn ter suppen else. 
 
 "I ain't say I b'le'e dat, but maybe Marse Jeemes 
 is turned ter a goose." 
 
40 The Eyrie, 
 
 V. 
 
 ON THE AMAZON. 
 
 MoojQ'LiGHT on the great Montana. Along the 
 banks of the Amazon gleam the white tents of the 
 cinchona merchant and his cascarilleros. 
 
 The toil of the day is over; most of the waxen 
 tapers within the tents are extmguished ; the Bra- 
 zilian bark hunters have retired to rest; and the 
 stillness which broods over the vast forest is broken 
 only by the screams of the howling monkeys, and 
 now and again the monrnful cry of the nighthawk, 
 known as the alma perdita, or lost sonl. 
 
 The ambiaba trees, with their white trunks and 
 silvery leaves gleaming against the dark back- 
 ground of the forest, look weird and beautiful in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 Standing beneath a luxuriant mimosa tree, whose 
 drooping branches trail into the water, is a young 
 and beautiful girl. In her hands are large clus- 
 ters of the exquisite violet flowers of the juvia 
 tree. She is watching a white umbrella bird and 
 a scarlet flamingo, and so intent is she, and so 
 still is the night, that she gives a quick start when 
 close beside her a few notes are struck on a guitar, 
 followed in a moment by a rich baritone voice 
 which she recognizes. 
 
 "Maiden, come, my doat is waiting," 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 41 
 
 The music rings out clear as a bell over the wa- 
 ter, and the next instant a canoe comes in sight. 
 Its sole occupant is a man clad in a scarlet poncho 
 of vicuna wool. He has removed his sombrero and 
 is reclining in the stern of the boat. As he touches 
 the strings of the guitar, his eye is taking in, with 
 all the keen delight of an artist, the calm, weird 
 beauty of the tropic scene. iSTo sooner does he 
 perceive the girl than he drops his guitar, the canoe 
 shoots forward, and the next instant he springs 
 ashore and takes her hand. 
 
 "You here?" he says. "Xow, this is charming. 
 Come, let's go a little way up the river; there is 
 a gentle breeze out there, and the air is as soft as 
 balm. Was there ever such a beautiful night? 
 See here," he continued, as he lifts her into the 
 canoe. "See here, I have shot some macaws and 
 toucans fojf your breakfast. And best of all, here 
 is a big, fat jacana, or water-hen; you may pre- 
 serve its crest of twelve black feathers to swell 3'our 
 Kst of curios, if you like. And look at the head 
 of this big king vulture, what a beautiful shade 
 of orange it is ; but you can see that better by 
 daylight. Its plumage is a delicate cream color. 
 You see I have not been entirely idle this after- 
 noon, nor have I forgotten that a very cruel and 
 blood-thirsty maiden would expect some trophy 
 upon my return, and would be disappointed if I 
 presented myself empty-handed." 
 
 The girl's sweet, silvery laugh rings out over 
 the water. 
 
 "And there you are quite right," she sa}'^. '^When 
 I came to the Montana with papa, I exacted a 
 promise from Mm, that he and all the cascarilleros 
 
42 The Eyrie, 
 
 should lay all their trophies in the shape of ani- 
 mals and birds at my feet, so that I might select 
 whatever I wish to preserve. This king-fisher 
 (how beautiful he is!) my tiger crane, flamingo, 
 and other rare birds, as well as my ocelot, arma- 
 dillo, and puma, I shall have mounted by a taxi- 
 dermist at Para. When we return to Eio, don't 
 you think I had better open a museum?" 
 
 "A capital idea. I will give you half my studio 
 for the exhibition.'^ 
 
 "You are very generous. I will consider your 
 olfer. By the way, Mr. Foster, have you been 
 painting any more pictures? Not any so beauti- 
 ful as the moonlight scene in the Passeo Publico, 
 I am quite sure. I like that much better than any 
 of 3'our forest pictures." 
 
 "The picture that I value most, the one that 
 is far the most beautiful, is that of yourself. And 
 this picture is indelibly engraved on — my heart." 
 
 Lilly Brandon gives him a quick glance, then 
 says with a half -pensive smile : 
 
 '^Ve have been very happy here, have we not? 
 I wonder shall we ever see the grand old forest 
 again. I am saddened at the thought of leaving 
 it." 
 
 "This is a land of enchantment, romance and 
 dreams. See the water-lilies gleaming in the 
 moonlight. They were once maidens like you, but 
 have been changed by the enchanter's wand into 
 these white flowers. I am under the spell of all 
 this beauty and witchery to-night, and there is no 
 telling what absurd things I may say or do. If 
 I turn you over into the river it will not be my 
 fault; the enchanters must bear all the blame." 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 43 
 
 His dark eyes have a magnetic power to-night, 
 and the girl at his side feels a strange thrill under 
 their intent gaze. 
 
 "Suppose we never go back," he says, presently. 
 "Suppose we go on, and on, and on." 
 
 "It is time for us to return, even now," she 
 says, a little anxiously. 
 
 He laughs. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, little white flower. I shall not 
 
 turn the boat over unless " he moves closer to 
 
 her and takes her hand — "unless you tell me that 
 you would rather live with your sister-flowers out 
 there than to be my Lilly, mine, I say, henceforth 
 and forever." 
 
 The boat is drifting on. He still holds her 
 hand. 
 
 ''You love me, then ?" she asks, in a tone so low 
 he bends his head to catch it. 
 
 'TTes, I love you with my whole soul, with every 
 fibre of my being. I love yoUj, 
 
 tt c 
 
 With a love that never shall die, 
 'Till the sun grows cold. 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgement Boole unfold.' 
 
 f» 
 
 The man's magnetism and ardor hold the girl 
 entranced, spellbound. Suddenly his mood changes. 
 A soft light comes into his face. He raises her 
 hand to his lips and says in a voice grown very 
 gentle and entreating: 
 
 "Pardon, sweetheart. I see I have frightened 
 you with my mad wooing. Pardon, my beautiful 
 
44 The Eyrie, 
 
 white flower, and tell me — yes, tell me truly if you 
 love me." 
 
 "Yes, I love you," replies the girl, very simply. 
 "I love you with all my heart." 
 
 He stoops and presses a long, lingering kiss on 
 her lips; then lifting her to her feet, they stand 
 upright in the boat. For a moment he gazes at 
 the beautiful scene around them, then up at the 
 brilliant constellations overhead. 
 
 "Here, th^n, in this enchanted forest, on the 
 bosom of the Amazon, under the Southern Cross, 
 we plight our troth, vowing to love each other until 
 death us do part." 
 
 The boat is drifting on. They sit down again. 
 
 Suddenly on the silence of the night there sounds 
 a roar that shakes the forest, and is blood-curdling 
 in its ferocity. The girl gives a smothered cry, 
 and turns white to the lips. With one quick ap- 
 prehensive, penetrating glance in all directions 
 around him, Foster soon perceives at a distance 
 of a few hundred feet, on the farther bank of the 
 river, the cat-like form of some animal which ap- 
 pears to be following the canoe. 
 
 They are now some distance from the main body 
 of the river, having unconsciously entered a tribu- 
 tary stream, which at this point is not more than 
 fifty feet wide. Thoroughly aroused to the dan- 
 ger of the situation, Foster applies his oars with 
 vigor, and tries to out-distance their pursuer. The 
 animal now comes boldly into view, and the moon- 
 light falling on its flanks reveals the black resetted 
 body of a huge jaguar. It is steadily following 
 them, sometimes stealthily, sometimes boldly, 
 watching a favorable opportunity for attack. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 45 
 
 The stream is becoming narrower, and the dan- 
 ger momentarily more imminent. The only hope 
 of escape seems to be to make a*sndden turn, row 
 rapidly past the animal before it becomes aware 
 of their intention, and reach the main body of the 
 river ere it can overtake them. Foster fiilly real- 
 izes the danger of such a bold stroke, but no 
 other means of escape presents itself to him. He 
 dares not fire at the jaguar, lest in the uncertain 
 light he should miss his aim and bring about a 
 more certain and ferocious attack. 
 
 Carefully placing his pistols on the seat beside 
 him, by a rapid movement he turns the canoe. The 
 next moment the little skiff shoots forward like 
 an arrow under the powerful strokes of his mus- 
 cular arms. The jaguar seeing his prey about to 
 escape, seems to form a sudden resolution. In 
 three bounds he attains a point directly opposite 
 the canoe, and crouching a moment, makes a bold 
 plunge. As his body shoots through the air, the 
 black rosettes on his yellow skin gleam like huge, 
 baleful eyes. 
 
 The girl in the canoe gives a piercing scream, 
 and falls forward in the bottom of the boat en- 
 tirely unconscious. 
 
 Quickly seizing one of his revolvers Foster fires, 
 and knows from the sudden growl that the ball has 
 not missed its mark. 
 
 Though evidently wounded the infuriated beast 
 will not relinquish the desperate onset. It is gain- 
 ing upon them. It is only a few feet from the 
 boat. Foster empties his other revolver. The 
 shot takes effect in the animal's neck. 
 
 The canoe now almost bounds from the water 
 
4-6 The Eyrie, 
 
 under Foster's masterly strokes, and the jaguar, his 
 strength gradually failing, is seen to drop behind. 
 In a little while its body sinks beneath the waves, 
 and a dark red stain mars the beauty of the lim- 
 pid blue water of the Amazon. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 47 
 
 VI. 
 
 DIVIDED. 
 
 Long, ■undulating stretches of yellow sand. Bleak 
 and barren hills gleaming white in the moonlight. 
 No sound to break the stillness save the murmur 
 of the ocean, and the faint and distant sound of 
 harp and violin. The moon that floats overhead 
 in a cloudless sky is at its full, and from the win- 
 dows of the white cottages along the beach flash 
 innumerable lights. Far away to the south gleams 
 Bod/s Island light, like a brilliant star of great 
 magnitude. Strolling slowly along the beach are 
 a man and a woman. They are walking in the di- 
 rection of Jockey's Eidge, and have left the other 
 couples far behind. On the face of the man is 
 an expression of deep sadness. The woman re- 
 gards him for a moment, then lays her hand 
 gently on his arm. 
 
 "Something is troubling you. What is it?" 
 
 He turns and looks intently into the dark eyes 
 raised questioningly to his. For a moment he 
 does not reply, then he says in a voice whose calm- 
 ness belies the deep emotion which is blanching his 
 face: 
 
 "I cannot tell you. My lips must be dumb. 
 But I feel that between you and me there are times 
 when audible speech is unnecessary. I must leave 
 
48 The Eyrie, 
 
 you to-morrow. For the few hours that remain 
 let us strive to banish painful thoughts/' 
 
 "I shall miss you so. These summer days have 
 been the happiest of my life. What shall I do 
 when you are gone ? I shall be so lonely, so dread- 
 fully lonely.^' 
 
 "Yes, I know; and that is the hardest part 
 of going. If I could only bear all the pain that 
 this parting must bring ! But I have known for 
 many days that such will not be the case." 
 
 "Then, why will you go ?'^ 
 
 She raises her beautiful dark eyes to his with 
 a look so imploring that he turns away. But in 
 a moment he stands before her with a firm, set 
 face. There is a note of reproach and entreaty 
 in his voice, as he answers : 
 
 "Do not tempt me. You know why I must go. 
 I have already stayed too long, far too long." 
 
 "This friendship of ours has been so beautiful, 
 so sweet. What harm can it do to her or you or 
 me? All my life I have wanted a friend like 
 you, one who at once understands and sympathizes 
 with all my feelings. Do you know that I have 
 often thought this a most singular thing. I won- 
 der why you alone of all people in the world should 
 understand me." 
 
 He cannot repress a sad smile at the singular 
 guilelessness of this woman, whose heart he reads 
 like an open book. His voice is very gentle, as he 
 says: 
 
 "Some day the scales will fall from your eyes, 
 and then you will see things as they really are. 
 On that day you will understand why to-night 
 I tell you I must leave you.^" 
 
 i} 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 49 
 
 "But our friendship has been so beautiful/' she 
 repeats, in a tone of deep sadness and reproach. 
 
 "Far too beautiful. But how hard we have tried, 
 ni)' sweet and noble friend, to be only friends. And 
 if we have failed we have done so in all innocence 
 and good intent. I call God to witness this night, 
 that the feeling I have for you is the purest, the 
 highest, the holiest that I have ever felt for mortal 
 woman. It has changed and glorified my life. 
 Nevertheless, I am not deceived. While I am 
 strong, let me leave j'ou. It is far better that I 
 should go now. The longer the delay the greater 
 will be the pain.'' 
 
 "It breaks my heart to think of what your life 
 will be." Her head droops and her e3^es are 
 blinded with tears. 
 
 "Yes, my life is a wreck not pleasant to con- 
 template. But if we sow to the wind we must 
 reap the whirlwind. For better, for worse, saith 
 the marriage vow. If the Dead-Sea fruit has 
 turned to ashes on my lips, I must make the best 
 of the aslies. My honor binds me to keep the 
 faith I plighted, and God helping me, I will." 
 
 A sudden change comes over the face of the 
 woman. She la3's her hand gently on his arm. 
 
 Forgive me !" she says, in a low, earnest voice. 
 Forgive me ! You are so noble, so brave, so 
 strong. I shall think of you always as the noblest 
 man I ever knew. I did not know — indeed, I did 
 not know — until to-night. I thought we were only 
 friends. I have been so happy that I have not 
 dreamed of danger. And I have longed, so ear- 
 nestly, to throw a little sunshine into j'our life." 
 "Yes, I know; I understand and appreciate. No 
 
 
50 ^he Eyrie, 
 
 shadow of blame can attach to you. I know that 
 your soul is as spotless as snow/^ 
 
 He stoops and raises her small white hand, rev- 
 erently, to his lips. Then he says in a voice grown 
 husky from emotion: 
 
 "God alone will ever know what it costs me 
 to say and to leave unsaid what I have to-night." 
 
 Again she raises her beautiful eyes to his, and 
 the light in them seems to him a glimpse of 
 heaven. 
 
 "Then know that the scales have fallen from my 
 eyes, and — I understand. And so, good-bye." 
 
 A long, lingering hand-clasp, a long, lingering 
 look into each other's eyes, and, 
 
 ''Two are wallcing apart forever, 
 And wave their hands for a mute farewell." 
 
And Other Southern Stones. 51 
 
 VII. 
 
 LITTLE MARSE HAL. 
 
 '^ES, sar, dat's de place whar my ole marster 
 useter lib ; but, law ! ef you could er seen dat place 
 ^fo' de war, when de ole house wus dar, it would 
 er done yer eyes good ter look at it. 'Kase dar 
 wa'n't no place 'roun' heer dat could hole er light 
 ter dis one. "Lord amassy, dat house de finis' 
 one ter be sho'. It had er dozen rooms in it, and 
 pi'zass mighty nigh all eroun' it. When I shets 
 me eyes now, sometimes, Spears lack I kin see it, 
 jes' lack hit useter look when ole marster was a 
 libin'. In de summertime, when de trees wus full 
 er lebes, an' de grass an' clober had sprung up in 
 de yard, nobody needn't want nothin' no better 
 dan to set down under one er dem trees, an' lis- 
 ten ter de bu'ds er singin' an' de locusts er hoU'in' 
 errywhar'. Oh, Lord, ain't I sot dar many a 
 time ub er Sunday ebenin' an' git so lazy an' feel 
 so good dat 'fo' I knowed it, I wus gone smack 
 ter sleep. 
 
 "I thanks de Lord dat house neber got bu'nt 
 up while ole marster wuz er libin'. 'Kase de ole 
 man's daddy built dat house, an' he thought more 
 un it 'an er little. ^Twould er broke 'is heart ter 
 had dem purty trees 'stroyed lack dey wus be dat 
 far'. 
 
52 The Eyrie, 
 
 <n 
 
 'Mistis, Marse John an' Marse Seth, hate ter 
 lose dat house mighty bad, an' Marse Seth he tuck 
 de 'shorence an' had er 'nother one put up; dat 
 one ye see dar now/' 
 
 "Were Marse John an' Marse Seth your old 
 Marster's children?" I asked of the old negro, in 
 whose story I was becoming interested. 
 
 "Marse John he wus, an' Marse Seth he wa'n't. 
 I'll tell ye how it wuz; ole Marster come be me 
 th'oo 'is mammy. She lef me an' er pasel er 
 more niggers ter 'im when she die. I wuz er lit- 
 tle bit er young un' when I fell ter ole marster, not 
 much higher 'n er bar'l. I jes' kin 'member it. 
 
 "Ole Marster he wuz gettin' 'long right smart 
 in years 'fo' he git married. He had jes' had de 
 pie house 'paired an' fixed up mighty fine when 
 he brung young Mistis home. I 'members jes' 
 ez good ez ef it wuz yistiddy — de day I fust seed 
 mistis. She had jes' gittin' out de kerridge, whar 
 stopped at de big gate, an' wuz walkin' wid ole 
 marster to'rds de house when I fust seed 'er. 'Bless 
 de Lord!' I say. '^Ef dat ain't de purtiest 'oman 
 I eber sot me eyes on.' 
 
 "I wuz hid 'hind er tree er peepin' at um, when 
 presney I look, an' see er little boy comin' 'long 
 'hind um on krotches. Dat wuz Marse Seth, what 
 wuz de son ub mistis's fust husban' 'fo' he had her. 
 Dat boy had suppen 'nother de matter wid 'is 
 knee, an' he couldn't walk er step widout dem 
 krotches. 
 
 "Well, a'ter we git 'quainted wid mistis we lub 
 'er mighty good. She wuz alus doin' suppen fur 
 some un us, 'mos' speshly when we gits sick. She 
 useter go right dar in de kitchen hers'f an' doc- 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 53 
 
 tor us. An' ole Marster, he did, too. Ef dey 
 ain't poured er pasel er stuff down me ! 'Kase 
 wlien I wuz er youngun' I useter be mighty poo'ly 
 sometimes. 
 
 ^' Teared lack ole marster an' mistis alus 
 thought de worl' er me. Dey tuck me ter wait 
 in de house, an' 'ten' ter Marse Seth. Dat boy 
 thought mo' er me ^an air nother darkey 'bout 
 de place. 
 
 "Marse John, ole marster's fust son, he wuz er 
 gre't, big, peart chile, an' ole marster wuz mighty 
 proud er him. A'ter er while Miss Kate she come 
 erlong. She wuz er purty little thing, wid right 
 black eyes an' ha'r. But none er mistis's chillun 
 wa'n't purty's little Marse Hal. Mistis had er pasel 
 er chillun, but dev all die but free. An' Miss 
 Kate she wuz 'bout fifteen years older'n little 
 Marse Hal. He wuz born 'bout two years 'fo' de 
 war broke out. Lord ! how errybody lubbed dat 
 chile ! He wuz jes' lack er little angul, an' de 
 sensiblest chile I eber see. He wuz nothin' but 
 er baby; but de darkies all call 'im Marse Hal. 
 'Pears lack I kin see 'im yit, trottin' up an' down 
 de front po'ch, straddle er stick boss, wid 'is yal- 
 ler curls er-flyin' out behind 'im. Dar wuz one 
 thing cur'ous 'bout dat chile, he alus had er tear 
 drop in de corner ub 'is eye, an' fast ez ye'd wipe 
 it out it 'u'd come again. Hit make 'is eyes look 
 kind er solum, eben when he wuz laffin'. 
 
 "Dat chile did ha' de curisest notions ter be 
 she'. One night he an' me wuz settin' on de front 
 steps, an' I look at Marse Hal an' see 'im look- 
 in' mighty hard right up de sky. Presney I says, 
 ^Vhat ye thinkin' 'bout, honey ?' 
 
54 The Eyrie, 
 
 '^ 'I waz thinkin'/ says he, Vhat de stars kin be. 
 What is dey, Unc' Miles ?' 
 
 "He turn an^ look right straight at me wid 'is 
 gre't, big solum eyes. 
 
 " Tjord, Marse Hal/ says I, 'I dunno what dey 
 is, 'ceptin' dey^s stars/ says I. 
 
 " 'I'll tell ye what I thinks dey is/ says he. 
 'I thinks dey's de good Lord's candles/ says he. 
 
 "'Lord, Marse Hal! What do he do wid um 
 in de da3rtime?' says I. 
 
 " 'Why, Unc' Miles, in corse he blows um out/ 
 says he. 
 
 "He sholy wuz er sensible chile. 
 
 "Marse Seth, Marse John an' Miss Kate, dey 
 wuz all gro\\Ti. Marse Seth, he wuz free. An' ole 
 marster, he wuz gittin' 'long mighty ole when 
 Marse Hal wuz born; an' he wuz same ez 'is eye- 
 balls. 
 
 "We useter ha' mighty good times twell de war 
 broke out, but dat upsot errything. I useter hear 
 um talkin' 'bout freedom an' sich ; but. Lord ! I 
 didn't keer nothin' 'bout bein' free. I wuz jist 
 ez happy ez er coon dar wid our folks, playin' 
 wid de chillun, bilin' lasses, poppin' popcorn fur 
 um, an' sich, Avhen I didn't ha' no wuck ter do. 
 'Pears lack dey all thought jam by ez much er 
 me ez ef I wuz white ez dey wuz. 
 
 "But when de war broke out, dat upsot erry- 
 thing. Marse John he wollunteered an' went wid 
 er pasel mo' our mens do^vn ter Ro'noke Islan' ter 
 'pare fer de Yankees. Dat wuz er skeerry time 
 shore's you er born ! We could hear dem cannon 
 guns down ter Eo'noke, gwine boom ! boom ! crack ! 
 crack ! Dey soun' jes' lack thunder. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. ^^ 
 
 **1 hear folks say some er dem cannon guns 
 down dar so big er man could git inside nn nm. 
 But thanks de Lord ! I never know how dang'ous 
 dey wuz twell a'ter de battle wuz done, an' Eo'noke 
 tnck. 
 
 "I nseter feel mighty sorry fur Marse Seth, 
 'long den. He want ter go ter de war so bad, an' 
 he couldn't do it 'kaze he wuz lame an' had ter 
 walk on krotches. I 'members one day he an' 
 Miss Kate wuz settin' under de big elum dar in 
 de lane, an' I wuz comin' 'long home from ole 
 Unc' Lem's th'oo de fiel', an' I heered um talk- 
 in'. Marse Seth he say : 
 
 " 'I feels lack er coward when I thinks ub all 
 de udder boys gone erway ter fight fer dey kentry/ 
 says he, 'an' I stayin' home. I can't neber be no 
 sarvis ter my kentry,' says he, ' 'kaze I ain't noth- 
 in' but er broken staff,' says he. 
 
 *' ^ut ye kin be ub sarvis ter we all,' says Miss 
 Kate. 'What would we do widout vou? Father's 
 gettin' ole an' feeble, an' dar ain't nobody but you 
 ter 'tend de farm an' look a'ter things,' says she. 
 
 "He look at her mighty gr'teful lack, an' he say : 
 
 " 'Hit's er gre't pleasure ter me ter do all I 
 kin fer you an' all dat I lubs,' says he, 'but I kin 
 do mighty little,' says he. 
 
 " 'Ye don't do yerse'f jistice,' says Miss Kate. 
 'Kaze ye ain't strong an' well lack some mens 
 ain't no reason ye can't be ub sarvis. Folks kin 
 wuck wid dey head's well ez wid dey hands,' says 
 she. 
 
 " 'Do I wuck verry hard wid my head, my dear ?' 
 says he, sorter smilin'. 
 
 "TTes, ye do,' says she. 'What would become 
 
S6 The Eyrie, 
 
 er de farm, an' who would 'tend ter de darkies 
 ef it wa'n't fer you, an' your thinkin' an' plan- 
 nin'? Ter say nothin' ub de comfort you is ter 
 Ma an' me/ says she. 
 
 '' ^Do you value my sarwises so highly, an' am 
 I r'ally er comfort ter you, Kate?' 
 
 " ^Kin you doubt it ?' says she, sorter blushin', 
 but lookin' up right in 'is face. 
 
 "He neber said nothin', but jist reached out an' 
 tuck 'er han' an' kissed it. An' den dey got up 
 an' started fer de house. Dey didn't talk much 
 gwine 'long, an' hit 'peared ter me dey look mighty 
 solum. 
 
 "Marse Seth an' Miss Kate, dey wa'n't no kin, 
 but eber sence dey wuz little chillun dey alus 
 thought de worl' er one 'nother. 
 
 "Well, things went 'long sorter smoove twell 
 we heard de guns er-firin' down ter Eo'noke, an' 
 knowed de Yankees had got dar. Lord ! ef we 
 wa'n't skeered den ! 'Kaze we wuz 'spectin' all de 
 time Marse John gwine git killed. 
 
 "Dey wuz down dar seben mont's 'parin' fer 
 de Yankees 'fo' dey come. But when dey do come 
 hit didn't take um long ter whip our mens. 
 
 "In corse, hit didn't, dey might known dat; 
 'kaze all de odds wuz 'g'inst us. 
 
 "I heered Marse John say de fust thing dem 
 Yankees done when dey git dar 'long side de Is- 
 lan' wuz ter po' er whole pasel er red hot shot ober 
 dar, untwel dey sot de bar'ks erfar an' bu'nt um 
 up. Den dey pou'd out solid shot untwel dey 
 lebled de bre's-wucks, yes, sar, bles' yo' soul, leb- 
 eled um ter de groun' ! 
 
 ^Gen'l Bu'nside had er powerful fleet er wes- 
 
 (d 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 57 
 
 sels out dar ; yes, sar, an' er tremenjous army, too ; 
 an' how's Gunnel Shaw, wid his han'ful er mens 
 gwine stan' g'inst all dem odds? He couldn't do 
 it, dat's all. But Marse John say dey sho'ly did 
 fight brave, our mens did. One man jes' stood 
 up on top de bre's-wuck, 'fo' dey to' it down, an' 
 spreeted open 'is coat an' 'sposed 'is bre's, an' cuss 
 de Yankees, an' holler at um ter shoot away an' 
 kill 'im ef day kin. De shot wuz er flyin' roun' 
 'im right an' left, but 'fo' de Lord, dat man neber 
 so much ez got 'is skin scratched ! Hit sho'ly was 
 cur'ous. 
 
 "Lord amassv ! I wouldn't been dar fer de 
 worl'. Wid dem bung-shells er-bustin' an' dem 
 cannons er-farin' all eroun', how anybody done 
 ter keep frum gittin' killed 'stonished me. One 
 er dem bung-shells bu'sted right nigh Marse John, 
 an' th'owed 'im down, an' kivered 'im up in du't. 
 Hit blowed de man whar wuz standin' by Marse 
 John way up in de air, an' to' 'im all ter flinders. 
 Hit sholy wuz a wonder Marse John neber got 
 killed, 'kaze dey had ter dig him an' some udder 
 mens, whar got kivered up when dat bung-shell 
 bu'sted, smack outen de groun'. Dey wuz nigh 
 'bout smothered ter def. 
 
 ""When de Yankees landed dey had ter come 
 th'oo er ma'sh, 'fo' dey could git ter whar Gunnel 
 Shaw's army wuz. An' our mens, dey had two 
 gre't, big cannon guns sot right at de een' er dat 
 road, jist er-playin' on um ez dey come erlong. 
 One man jist tuck an' stood right on top er one 
 er dem guns, an' dar he stood, wid 'is s'o'd in 'is 
 han', cuttin' some er dem Yankees all ter pieces, 
 twell dey killed 'im. Yes, sar, dey jes' made sas- 
 
58 The Eyrie, 
 
 sage meat outen ^im. He wiiz de biggis fool I 
 eber see ter th'oo hisse'f erway in dat fashion. 
 
 ^^fVell, sar, de Yankees, dey went o' dem can- 
 nons ; dey didn't keer f er nm ! 
 
 "Our mens dey fon't mighty brave, bnt dey 
 couldn't stan' 'g'inst all dem Yankees — dey might 
 known dat — so dey had ter h'ist de white flag an' 
 s'render. Den de Yankees tnck um pris'nns, an' 
 put nm on a gre't, big boat whar dey call de ^Spanl- 
 din'/ an' neber gin nm nothin' ter eat 'ceptin' 
 raw pork an' hard tack. , 
 
 "Mistis, she nseter sen' Marse John er pasel 
 er cakes an' sassage, ^' one stuff er 'nother, when 
 de boats went down ter Eo'noke, 'fo' de Yankees 
 git dar. But a'ter dey tuck um pris'nus, dey jamby 
 starve ter def. 'Kaze how's my young marster, 
 whar wuz useter de fat er de Ian', gwine eat dat 
 hard tack, whar wuz jes' lack chips, er dat po'k, 
 whar dey ain't cook none 'ceptin' po'in' hot water 
 on to it in de bar'l? Jes' well gi' it ter 'im raw 
 ez not ter cook it no better'n dat. 
 
 "Marse Jolm, he jis' tuck an' heaved it o'erboard 
 when dey gi' it ter him. Lord ! ef I ain't heerd 
 Marse John tell 'bout dem things so much hit 
 nigh 'bout 'pears ter me I fou't down ter Ro'noke 
 mese'f. 
 
 "Some our folks 'bout heer dey got all de boats 
 dey could fine, an' sunk um upside down, dar in 
 de channel, twixt Eo'noke Islan' an' Croatan ; try- 
 in' fer ter keep de Yankees frum guine ter Liz'- 
 beth CitA\ But 'twa'n't no use ! De Yankees 
 didn't make no mo' er dem boats 'an de would 
 er turkle; dey jis' blowed um all ter flinders, an' 
 come right erlong th'oo. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 59 
 
 ''When dey git dar ter town dey ^leased de pris- 
 'ners, an' Marse John come home. Lord ! ef we 
 wa'n't glad ter see 'im ! Mistis an' Miss Kate dey 
 right nachly cried fer joy. Marse John sho'ly 
 did look scan'lus do ! He hadn't been shaved none 
 ner had 'is hair cut none in jamby eight months. 
 He sho'ly did 'mind me ub er b'ar. He look right 
 grizzly. 
 
 "Well, he stayed long dar home right smart 
 while, den he went erway ergin ter fight de Yan- 
 kees some mo'. He wa'n't done yit. 'Pears lack 
 he hate de Yankees so bad he couldn't res' 'dout 
 he's fightin' um. 
 
 "We all sho'ly did feel lonesome a'ter Marse 
 John lef . Hit seem jis' lack somebody ner wuz 
 dead. We didn't know what wuz gwine ter come 
 er him er de rest er our folks 'nother. 'Kaze de 
 Yankees, when de git dar to 'Liz'beth City, dey 
 jis' scattered all 0' de kentry, rippin' an' tearin' an' 
 doin'. Some er our mens j'in'd um, an' called 
 dese'f buff'loes. When our folks heered er dat 
 dey wuz mad ez blazes. 01 e marster an' Marse 
 Seth cussed um blue, 'kaze dey jine de Yankees, 
 er-fightin' 'g'inst dey own folks. 
 
 "Twixt all dem an' de g'rillers, what dey call 
 bush-whackers, 'kaze dey hide 'hind bushes, trees 
 an' sich lack, an' fights on de sly — twixt all dem, 
 thinks I, how's anybody gwine keep frum gittin' 
 killed. I wuz so skeered I didn't know what ter 
 do. Sometimes T couldn't eben ha' de heart ter 
 pray none. Ef it hadn't been fer lebin' our folks, 
 I b'le'e I'd er gone in de woods an' hid in er holler 
 tree, lack er squir'l. But some er de darkies wuz 
 happy ez dey kin be, 'kaze dey hope de Yankees 
 
6o The Eyrie, 
 
 gwine whip, an' dey kin git de frednm. But dat 
 "vra'n't me. No, sar ! I wuz jis' ez free ez I 
 want ter be. 
 
 "Some er de niggers done gone ter jine de Yan- 
 kees. But none er ole marster's hadn't gone yit. 
 Dey neber lef twell de nigger reg'ment come. Dat 
 wuz er skeerry time, shore's you er born ! Dey 
 had white officers o' um ; but when de folks seed 
 all dem nigger pickets all about, dey sutney wuz 
 skeered. One night er pasel er um come out our 
 way, an' camped right out yander in de fiel'. When 
 hit got good an' dark we could see de camp-far's 
 er burnin', an' all dem soldiers gethered roun'. 
 Dat's de fust time I seed Marse Seth skeered. He 
 didn't know how many er ole marster's darkies 
 he could 'pend on, an' wid all dem niggers out 
 dar so nigh de house, hit wuz dang'ous. So Marse 
 Seth, widout sayin' er word ter nobody, he went 
 out dat night an' axed de white Cap'n ter sen' er 
 guard ter 'tect our folks. An' he done it, too; 
 but de guard was mostly niggers do. Dey neber 
 pestered nuffin ; but next mornin' dey wuz all gone, 
 an' nigh 'bout all er ole marster's darkies done 
 gone wid um. Der wa'n't but five lef 'sides me, 
 an' ole marster had sixty head un um. Jamby all 
 de darkies 'bout heer went o5 dat night an' jine 
 de nigger sold'ers. 
 
 "I went out dar nex' mornin' ter whar dey had 
 de camps, an' bless yo' soul ! ef dey hadn't bu'nt 
 up nigh 'bout all de fence 'roun' de fiel'. An' dem 
 wuz bran' new Cyprus rails, too. I wuz so put 
 out I didn't know what ter do, 'kaze I knowed I 
 had ter go right ter wuck an' maul some mo'. 
 
 "Well, arter dat I didn't git so mighty skeered 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 6i 
 
 twell de g'rillers come a'ter de horses. Dey come 
 one night an' 'manded de stable key f um ole 
 marster, say dey wanted some hosses. Dar wuz 
 er whole pasel im nm, an' ole marster knowed he 
 didn't ha' no way ter 'zist um, so he gin nm de 
 key. Two er th'ee weeks 'fo' dat I had gitten two 
 gre't, big car'y-log chains an' stretched nm 'cross 
 de stable do' an' fastened um tight, ter keep any- 
 body frum gittin' dem hosses. I knowed dem 
 critters couldn't come th'oo de chains ter sabe 
 der life. De g'rillers dey fumbled an' dey fum- 
 bled at de chains, tryin' fer ter ondo um, but dey 
 couldn't do it do. I wuz hid 'hind de kitchen, 
 watchin' um. When dey fine dey can't ondo de 
 chains, dey 'gun ter holler at de hosses, an' dey 
 skeered um so bad dey jest squatted right down 
 an' come smack under dem chains, an' went 
 er-rippin' an' kittin' all ober de barn-lot. De g'ril- 
 lers tuck a'ter um, tryin' fer ter ketch um ; but 
 dey must er knowed who dey wuz, 'kaze dey jist 
 snorted an' kicked up der heels, an 'tickler de mules, 
 an' run so fas' ye might jis' ez well try ter ketch 
 lightnin' ez dem creeters. When I seed de g'rillers 
 runnin' an' hollerin' fit ter break der neck, I jis' 
 holler out: 
 
 " ^Go it, now ! Ketch um ef ye kin !' 'kaze I 
 knowed dey couldn't do it ter sabe der gizzards. 
 I 'spected ev'ry minute ter see some er dem mules 
 kick um high ez er kite. Presney dey lebe, mad 
 ez dey kin be. But dey ain't git no hosses her 
 mules nuther ; 'kaze dem creeters had too much 
 sense ter be ketch by er pack er varments lack 
 dem g'rillers." 
 
62 The Eyrie, 
 
 Uncle Miles shook with laughter over the recol- 
 lection of this scene. He resumed: 
 
 "We wuz right 'tween two far's. I dunno which 
 I wuz de skeerdest un, de buff'loes er de g'rillers. 
 'Peared lack dey wuz jis' let loose. Dey had er heart 
 lack er turkle; dey didn't keer fer nothin'. 
 
 "When de darkies seed um comin' dey would 
 put right off er-porin' fer de ^quarters.' 
 
 " 'Long 'bout dem times we couldn't hardly 
 make out ter stem de tide. We wuz study 'spect- 
 in' ter git killed. I tell you, sar, 'twas er hard 
 row er stumps. 
 
 "We useter hear f'um Marse John sometimes. 
 One time he writ us he got wounded in de arm, 
 an erner time dat dey had tuck 'im pris'ner. An' 
 presney heer come er letter sayin' he had fell in 
 lub wid de prison-keeper's da' ter; an' he say he 
 gwine ter marry her, an fetch 'er home wid 'im 
 when he come. Mistis, she writ an' say she can't 
 neber gi' her consent fer Marse John ter marry 
 er Yankee gal. He writ back dat he can't gi' 
 up 'is sweetheart fer nobody, not eben 'is ma, good 
 ez he lub her. He say he gwine git married ef 
 he lib, jist ez soon ez de war wuz ober. An' he 
 done it, too. When Marse John git 'is head sot 
 on doin' anythin' he gwine do it sho', an' errybody 
 jis' well keep der mouf shet. 
 
 "Well, we got 'long right smart and didn't ha' 
 much trouble smack twell Eichmond fell. Our 
 folks sho'ly did grebe ter hear dat. It clean broke 
 ole Marster's heart. Hit useter make me cry ter 
 see 'im gwine 'bout dar, wid 'is head bowed down, 
 lack he lost his las' frien'. He wuz mighty ole 
 an' po'ly, an' dat finished 'im. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 63 
 
 "Xot many days a'ter de news come 'bont Eich- 
 mon', I seed ole Marster settin' under de big oak 
 in de yard. Dar he sot, leaning up ergin de tree, 
 an' his hat an' stick had fell on de groim'. He 
 look kinder ciir'oiis, an' I 'gun ter git mighty 
 skeered. I run ter 'im, an' called 'im an' shuch 
 'im, an' begged 'im ter speak jis' one mo' M'ord 
 ter po' ole Miles what lubed 'im so true; but he 
 wuz dead, sar ! Dead an' cole, an' stil? I He wa'n't 
 neber gwine speak ter — me no mo' — twell we meets 
 — whar der ain't gwine be no mo' partin' an' whar 
 de tears is all gwine be wiped erway. Amen ! 
 
 "A'ter we laid 'im out in de big parlor, I seed 
 little Marse Hal er-peepin' in dar th'oo de do'. I 
 ax 'im what he doin'. He look up at me wid er 
 cur'ous look in dem purty blue eyes an' he say 
 kinder low an' solum : 
 
 " 'I's watchin' fer de anguls, Unc' Miles. Ma 
 says when good peoples dies, de angels comes an' 
 takes um home ter heben. Pa's good. Why don't 
 dey come a'ter him?' 
 
 " ^Maybe dey's already been, little Marster,' says 
 
 ^ • 
 
 " 'No, dey ain't,' says he, ' 'kaze I's been watch - 
 in' fer um all day. I wants ter see um when dey 
 comes, an' ax um ter take me, too; 'kaze Pa'll be 
 lonesome widout me. He'll miss me so bad, Unc' 
 Miles.' 
 
 " 'Lord, honey ! Don't you talk like that,' says 
 I. 'An' don't you watch fer de anguls no mo'. I 
 ^specks dey's already been an' tuck ole Marster 
 home ter heb'n. Anguls ain't nufhn' but sperits, 
 an' you can't see er sperit,' sa3'S I. 
 
 "I knowed I wuz lyin' ter dat chile. 'Kaze ain't 
 
64 The Eyrie, 
 
 I seed many er sperit wid dese heer eyes er mine. 
 But ye ain't 'bleeged ter tell chillun errytliing. So 
 I tuck little Marse Hal by de ban' an' led ^im out 
 in de lane, an' played wid 'im, an' talked ter 'im, 
 jist ter git his mine off de anguls. Lord amassy ! 
 be looked jist lack a little angul bisse'f. Dat he 
 did! 
 
 ^''Marse John neber knowed ole Marster wuz 
 dead untwel he wuz done an' bur'ied. When he 
 do come home, he fotch 'is Yankee wife wid 'im. 
 But 'peered lack she wa'n't neber satisfied in dese 
 parts. Marse John say she pinin' fer de Norf. 
 So a'ter erwhile he tuck 'er home; an' dey ain't 
 come back heer ter lib no mo'. 
 
 "Dat same summer Marse John went erwav, dat 
 blessed chile, little Marse Hal, whar we all sot 
 our hearts on, 'gun ter jist pine erway, an' wilt, 
 lack er tender plant dat de hot sun an' de rough 
 winds is too much fer. Yes, sar, he jis' 'gun ter pine 
 an' pine, an' say he tired all de time, an' 'peered lack 
 his skin got whiter an' his blue eyes bigger an' 
 solumer erry day. At fust we didn't git so mighty 
 oneasy, but at last we seed he wuz dang'ous. Den 
 we all 'gin up err}i:hing, an' some un us sot by 
 'im night an' day. We kotch erry word he said, 
 an' watched erry breath he drawed, an' erry sweet 
 smile dat lit up dem precious eyes. We done all 
 we could, an' de doctor, he come erry day and done 
 all Tie could; but dat sweet chile wuz too tender 
 an' lovin' an' good fer dis worl', an' de Lord 
 wanted 'im up dar wid him; an' I knowed ole 
 marster couldn't neber be satisfied twell he geth- 
 ered 'im in his arms once mo'. I sot by dat bed 
 many er time, an' ergin an' ergin dem words er 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 65 
 
 little Marse Hal, ^bout axin' de anguls ter take 
 him, too, ^kaze his Pa'd be so lonesum widout him, 
 come back ter me ; an^ well I knowed dis heer heart 
 wuz 'bleeged ter break. Yes, sar, well I knowed 
 how sad an' lonesome hit gwine ter be when de 
 siinsliine had all lef , an' de shaders fell. 
 
 "De night he died we all gethered ^roun' de 
 bed. De winders stood open, an' de air wnz sweet 
 wid de smell er roses an' honeysuckle an' jessa- 
 min. 
 
 "Dar all 'roun' de do', and in de po'ch, an' un- 
 der de winders, stood piles an' piles er darkies, 
 lack gre't, black clouds 'g'inst de moonlight what 
 flooded de whole worl', lack de sky done open so 
 we kin se de light whar shine 'round de gre't 
 White Throne. 
 
 "Errybody had sot der heart on little Marse 
 Hal; an' de tears an' de sobs er white an' black 
 showed how dear he wuz ter all. An' dar he lay 
 wid 'is bref commin' hard, an' 'is eyes haf shet, 
 an' 'is face mos' ez white ez de piller whar his 
 head wid de purty yaller curls wuz restin' 'g'inst. 
 Presney he open 'is eyes right wide, an' er sweet 
 smile lit up his face. 
 
 " ^I hears de anguls comin', says he. TJisten ! 
 See!' 
 
 "Den he shet dem sweet blue eyes an' Jine dat 
 angul band, smilin' all de time. An' dat smile 
 neber lef 'is face; it wuz dar a'ter he wuz dead. 
 
 "Did I say dead, marster? Marse Hal ain't 
 dead ! he comes in de nighttime an' talks ter me. 
 He don't lay off ter let me fergit 'im. De bu'ds 
 in de trees sing ter me erbout 'im; an' in all de 
 blue flowers I see dem sweet blue eyes, an' de yal- 
 
66 The Eyrie, 
 
 ler ones fetch back dem curls. !N'o, sar ! He don't 
 lay off ter let me fergit ^im. 
 
 "You say you wants ter heer de rest, marster? 
 Well, den, de nex' thing comes de far'. When dat 
 big house ketched erfar' an' bu'nt up, hit wuz er 
 turrible sight. But dat wuz de een' er de wust 
 trouble. Right smart while 'fo' dat, Marse Seth 
 been studyin' law, an' useter 'cite ter er lawyer dar 
 ter town. A'ter er while he writ er book, an' 
 made piles er money. Den he went ter er mighty 
 doctor dar ter New York, what koured all kinds 
 er cripples. He kept er stayin' dar ter New York 
 an' writ back de doeter 'peared ter be helpin' 'is 
 knee. Dat's all he writ. 
 
 "One day Miss Kate wuz settin' on de front 
 po'ch, an' I wuz wuckin' in de flower garden, when 
 presney we look an' see Marse Seth comin' up 
 on hossback. I started ter go an' 'sist 'im ter 'light ; 
 but, bless yo' soul, 'fo' I git dar he wuz on de 
 groun' er walkin' to de house widout no krotches 
 er nuffin'. I stood right still er lookin' at 'im 
 wid 'stonishment ; but Miss Kate jumped up an' 
 run out ter meet 'im. 
 
 ^Oh, Seth, I's so glad,' says she. 
 ^He jest tuck er right in 'is arms an' kissed 
 her time an' ergin. Den we went in de house 
 tergedder an' all had er mighty 'joicin' 'kaze Marse 
 Seth got well. 
 
 "An' den de nex' thing come de weddin'; an' 
 nobody neber seed no sweeter bride dan Miss Kate. 
 Dat night dey wuz walkin' 'mongst de flowers an' 
 de moon wuz ez bright ez day. Dey stopped by 
 de lilac bush, an' I heered Marse Seth tell 'er dat 
 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 67 
 
 he wuz de happiest man in de worF. She looked 
 up in 'is face wid er sweet smile, an' say : 
 
 " ^An' I am de happiest woman. But, Seth/ 
 says she, ^I would er had ye long ergo ef ye had 
 axed me.' 
 
 " 'Heb'n bless you/ says he, er puttin' 'is arm 
 erroun' her, an' den: 'You know why I didn't, 
 dear,' says he. 'You knows dat I has lubed you 
 fer years an' years — always, in fact, altho' I did 
 not speak.' 
 
 " 'Yes, Seth, I knows,' says she. An' she did, 
 too. 
 
 "Women folks is cur'ous creeters. 'Pears lack 
 dey kin look right inter er man's eyes an' read 
 what's writ do^n deep in 'is heart, widout his sayin' 
 er word. Dey sho'ly is hard ter fool. 
 
 "Dat's er long time ergo, but I thinks erbout 
 dem days mighty of 'en; an' sometimes I wishes 
 I wiiz back dar in de ole times. Yes, sar, right 
 back dar, 'mongst all our folks, wid little Marse 
 Hal er-playin' 'roun' my knee. I ain't neber lubbed 
 nobody good ez I do dat chile. 'Pears lack I kin 
 see 'im yit, wid 'is purty yaller curls, an' 'is sof, 
 white skin, an' dem solum blue eyes, wid dat lit- 
 tle tear-drop alus in de corner. I gits ter study- 
 in' sometimes, an' I wimders how dat chile looks 
 in heb'n. But one thing I Jcnotvs: Dar ain't no 
 angul up dar got no brighter crown dan de purty 
 gole curls er little Marse Hal." 
 
68 The Eyrie, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 By Bettie Freshwater Pool. 
 
 ANGEL OF MY GETHSEMANE. 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane, 
 
 0, hear my pleading cry to thee! 
 
 My life falls dead, my faith grows dim. 
 
 E'en God forsakes — why turn to him? 
 
 The shadows gather, darkness deep 
 
 Is closing round me; keep, oh, keep 
 
 My hand in thine and comfort me. 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane. 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane, 
 0, let me show my heart to thee! 
 My heart that bleeds, and breaks, and dies- 
 Turn not away thy pitying eyes ! 
 Their light so tender, warm and true. 
 Falls on my soul like morning dew, 
 Heal with thy touch of S3'mpathy, 
 Angel of my Gethsemane. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 69 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane, 
 
 I feel 'twas God who sent me thee; 
 
 Thy message sweet doth comfort bring, 
 
 There's balm of healing on thy wing; 
 
 My star of hope will rise again; 
 
 Thy ministry is not in vain. 
 
 'Tis Christ's own voice that speaks thro' thee, 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane. 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane, 
 
 0, let me kneel and break for thee 
 
 My box of alabaster sweet. 
 
 And pour its perfume at thy feet; 
 
 And let the incense swiftly rise 
 
 To highest heights of yonder skies, 
 
 TVHiose morning light now breaks for me. 
 
 Angel of my Gethsemane. 
 
 SUMMER TWILIGHT. 
 
 The sun sank low, and the twilight fell. 
 The shadows deepened on hill and dell ; 
 The evening star, with its soft, clear light, 
 Gleam'd like a gem on the brow of night. 
 
 The roses nodded and went to sleep. 
 The moon-flower op'ed her eye to peep, 
 
70 The Eyrie, 
 
 With timid glance at the silver sheen 
 Of night's majestiC;, glorious queen. 
 
 The rivulet hushed its 'plaining song, 
 
 As it flowed the lilies pale among, 
 
 And touched their lips with sweet caress, 
 
 And warmed their hearts with love's impress. 
 
 The elm trees whispered soft and low, 
 The fireflies flashed their ambient glow. 
 The song of the mock bird, sweet and clear. 
 Woke the slumb'ring echoes far and near. 
 
 The sheep lay down in their pastures green. 
 The kine returned to their homes serene, 
 And darkness fell, like a sombre veil. 
 O'er field and meadow, hill and dale. 
 
 THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP. 
 
 My home is in bogs and morasses, 
 I hide me away from the light. 
 
 The broad glare of day never sees me, 
 I venture not out save at night. 
 
 I am light as the air 
 
 As I dance, as I float. 
 And my form is as fair 
 
 As a fairy's bright boat. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 71 
 
 I glide in and out like a phantom. 
 Some fear me, and many admire. 
 
 Flee not when I come or I follow. 
 Pursue me and I will retire. 
 
 Fm a spirit of night 
 
 In a form strange and weird. 
 
 In my breath there is blight, 
 
 Plants and flowers I have seared. 
 
 In many a legend and romance 
 A place of importance I hold, 
 
 And theme I have been for the poet, 
 In ages and countries untold. 
 
 Though I hide in a fen 
 
 In the damp and the dark, 
 I allure many men 
 
 By my meteor spark. 
 
 OUE FLOWEE AND STAR. 
 
 As some fair rose that lifts its head, 
 To greet the morning sunlight warm. 
 
 But ere the evening comes is dead, 
 Shattered by some passing storm. 
 So perished our flower. 
 
72 The Eyrie, 
 
 But as the rose again will bloom, 
 
 And grace perchance some fairer scene, 
 
 In some bright land beyond the tomb, 
 Where storm of anguish ne'er hath been. 
 May bloom our flower. 
 
 As some grand comet, bright and bold. 
 Eclipsing orbs of lesser light, 
 
 Which as we wond'ringly behold 
 Is deep engulfed in darkest night, 
 So vanished our star. 
 
 But as that comet's fleeting light. 
 
 Perchance illumines some higher sphere^j 
 
 In heaven more gloriously bright. 
 Than when we gazed upon it here, 
 May shine our star. 
 
 DEEAMS. 
 
 As when some one on desert strand 
 
 Eemote from all he loves on earth. 
 Sees in a dream the happy band 
 
 That erst did gather 'round his hearth. 
 And smiles in sleep and opes his arms, 
 
 To clasp them tight, so near they seem, 
 When fades the scene with all its charms. 
 
 And soon he knows 'twas but a dream. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 73 
 
 So, oft across the silence, dear. 
 
 That lies between thy heart and mine. 
 Bright visions of old joys appear, 
 
 Which now as then seem half divine; 
 Again thy voice sounds in mine ear. 
 
 Again thy glances fondly beam, 
 But on my cheek soon falls a tear. 
 
 For I remember I but dream. 
 
 SOXG. 
 
 Softly the breeze murmurs by, love. 
 
 And brightly the wild flowers bloom. 
 Gaily the birds sing on high, love. 
 
 The warm air is filled with perfume. 
 But o^er me a sadness is stealing. 
 
 That nought but thy presence can cheer. 
 Day by day still more revealing. 
 
 Without thee my life would be drear. 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Come to me, come to me, dearest I 
 If but in dreams while I sleep. 
 
 Come to me, come to me, dearest. 
 Why do you leave me to weep? 
 
74 The Eyrie, 
 
 Drowsy and sweet hums the bee, love. 
 
 And gently the stream ripples by, 
 Green grows the grass on the lea, love, 
 
 And fair spreads the bine sky on high. 
 But still I sit sad and lonely. 
 
 And long for thy bright smile in vain. 
 Thou, dearest one, and thou only, 
 
 Canst bring to me gladness again. 
 
 DE FLEA. 
 
 Good Masser, 'sturb me not, I pray, 
 Dus early at de break er day, 
 Tse had a very awful fight. 
 An' has not slep' one wink dis night, 
 De fleas made up dey mine, 'tis plain, 
 Ter tackle me wid might and main. 
 I tell you, sar, der name is legion, 
 Dey come frum all eroun' dis region 
 An' sot on me, untwell I think 
 Dey 'tended all my blood to drink. 
 I sho'ly made a mighty fight 
 Ter let 'em know whut wuz my spite. 
 But how dey hopt, an' how dey bit I 
 An' how I jumpt, an' how I hit! 
 I slapt one hur, I slapt one dare, 
 Untwell I 'gun to clean dispair. 
 
And Other Southern Stones. 75 
 
 ^Kaze time I think I got him snug 
 
 He's gone, dat black consarned bug! 
 
 An' lit somewhar' an' bit ergin 
 
 An' made me jump jes' lack er pin 
 
 Had stuck its p'int clean throo my hide 
 
 An' come out on de tother side. 
 
 I git ez mad ez I kin be, 
 
 An holler at dat blessed flea, 
 
 An' tell 'im I gwine ketch him shore 
 
 An' mash him 'twell I make 'im roar. 
 
 But 'pear lack he ain't got no year. 
 
 Leastways, he 'tends dat he can't hear, 
 
 An' keeps on biting jes' de same, 
 
 Untwell he sets me all aflame. 
 
 I neber was so flounder flat, 
 
 I feels jes' lack er drownded rat. 
 
 LITTLE ELSIE. 
 
 Gently fold her lily hands, 
 Softly close her eyes of blue. 
 
 Tenderly on her fair brow. 
 Smooth the locks of golden hue. 
 
 Tranquilly she sleeps to-night. 
 Free from every grief and pain. 
 
 Calmly lay her to her rest. 
 
 On her soul not one dark stain. 
 
76 The Eyrie, 
 
 Early did she fade away, 
 
 Like some fair and fragile flower, 
 
 Fondly did we cherish her, 
 
 ^Till death's chill and darksome hour. 
 
 Brightly, like a sunbeam rare, 
 Shone she in our home so sweet, 
 
 Darkly now the shadows fall, 
 With the passing of her feet. 
 
 MY DEAE SUNNY SOUTHLAND. 
 
 How dear to my heart is the fair, sunny South- 
 land, 
 With its flowers, its song birds, its bright hum- 
 ming bees. 
 With its clear, winding streams, its forests prime- 
 val. 
 Where the murmuring pine trees perfume all 
 the breeze, 
 How sweet is the springtime, and fair early sum- 
 mer. 
 When daisies and buttercups carpet the ground. 
 When odor of eglantine mingles with jasmine, 
 And the sweet-smelling clover is everywhere 
 found. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 77 
 
 My dear sunny Southland, 
 My fair, dreamy Southland, 
 My musical Southland, 
 What joys here abound. 
 
 How gorgeous the woods in their autumnal splen- 
 dor. 
 How balmv the air, filled with scent of late 
 flowers, 
 What glorious sunsets are seen at this season, 
 No sun ever set in more splendor than ours. 
 Fit home for the poet this land so romantic, 
 x4h, what so inspiring as beauty is found? 
 The sigh of the South wind, the breath of the 
 flowers. 
 There is poetry, music in each sight and sound. 
 My dear sunny Southland, 
 My fair, dreamy Southland, 
 My musical Southland, 
 What joys here abound. 
 
 THOU ART SLEEPIN'G. 
 
 Thou art sleeping, thou art sleeping, 
 In the cold and silent tomb. 
 
 Where the nightly dew is steeping 
 Flowers that o'er thy slumber bloom. 
 
78 The Eyrie, 
 
 Nevermore shall care oppress thee, 
 Never shall thy heart be stirred 
 
 By old memories that distress thee, 
 Vanished joys, and hope deferred. 
 
 Thou art sleeping, thou art sleeping, 
 
 Deep beneath the cumbrous sod, 
 Where the lov'd ones o'er thee weeping 
 
 Waft their souls in prayer to God. 
 Calm is now thy troubled spirit, 
 
 Now thy weary feet may rest. 
 Purest joy may'st thou inherit. 
 
 With the ransomed and the blest. 
 
 Thou art sleeping, thou art sleeping. 
 
 On the green earth's quiet breast. 
 Where the stars are nightly keeping 
 
 Holy vigils o'er thy rest. 
 All life's sorrows now are ended. 
 
 All its toil and strife are o'er; 
 May thy spirit be attended 
 
 By bright angels evermore. 
 
 THE GEIPPE. 
 
 Parody on "The Bells." 
 
 See the people with the grippe, 
 Hateful grippe ! 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 79 
 
 How the doctor comes and goes, 
 
 On his repeated trip. 
 Hear them sneezing, sneezing, sneezing, 
 
 Thro' the day and thro^ the night. 
 While there comes a dreadful wheezing, 
 That keeps np its constant teasing 
 
 Till their chests are sore and tight. 
 How they hack, hack, hack. 
 With a pain in head and back, 
 Making wild expostulations. 
 As their medicine they sip. 
 To the grippe, grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 
 Grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 To the racking and the hacking, 
 
 Of the grippe. 
 
 See the children with the grippe. 
 
 Spiteful grippe ! 
 What a world of doleful sobbing,. 
 As they feel the nip ! 
 On the silent air of night, 
 How they yell out their affright. 
 Like fierce tempestuous gales. 
 
 All in tune. 
 What a fearful noise assails 
 The poor mother as she listens. 
 While she hails 
 
 Death a boon. 
 
8o The Eyrie, 
 
 Oh ! from thro' the open doors, 
 
 What a gust of shrieks and screams 
 
 Voluminously pours! 
 
 How they sip, how they rip 
 
 With rage ajid pain. 
 
 What a flip they now must take. 
 
 What a dip. 
 
 To stop the aching and the breaking, 
 
 Of the grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 
 Of the grippe, grippe, grippe, grippe^ 
 
 Grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 Stop the darting and the smarting 
 
 Of the grippe. 
 
 See the women with the grippe^ 
 
 Dreadful grippe ! 
 What a tale of terror is revealed 
 
 By eye and lip ! 
 In the patient doctor's ear 
 How they pour out all their fear, 
 Too much terrified to sleep 
 They can only weep, weep 
 
 Out of tune. 
 In a clamourous appealing 
 For some relieving plaster. 
 With frantic exclamation. 
 They demand a mustard plaster. 
 Weeping faster, faster, faster. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 8i 
 
 Now the doctor, now the pastor, 
 They consult with hope and dread. 
 Tossing, tumbling on the bed. 
 Till overcome with fear they swoon. 
 
 Oh, the grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 How much physic they must sip 
 
 For relief ! 
 How they mix and drink and scold. 
 How they try to cure this cold. 
 That has brought them so much agony. 
 
 And grief, 
 '^et the heart it fully knows. 
 By the changes 
 
 And the ranges " • 
 
 How the danger ebbs and flows." 
 And the briny tears still drip 
 At the wearing and the tearing, 
 As the dangers rise and slip, 
 "At the sinking and the swelling 
 Of the anger'^ of the grippe. 
 Of the grippe, grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 
 Grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 Of tlie gnawing and sawing 
 
 Of the grippe. 
 
 See the men folks with the grippe. 
 Awful grippe ! 
 
82 The Eyrie, 
 
 What a world of fuss and fume 
 
 As they their glasses tip, 
 
 *'In the silence of the night, 
 
 How we shiver with affright 
 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone. 
 
 For every sound that floats 
 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan/^ • 
 
 And the demon, oh, the demon, 
 Eecognized by man and woman^ 
 
 In their brain. 
 And, who, beating, beating, beating, 
 With all his might and main 
 Feels a glory in so treating 
 These poor men with ache and pain. 
 He has neither heart nor feeling 
 And their senses he keeps stealing 
 
 Till they're gone. 
 And he hammers and he grinds. 
 
 And he winds, winds, winds. 
 Their brains up in the grippe, 
 And with merry hop and skip. 
 He tramples in the grippe. 
 Ever lashing with his whip. 
 Leaping high, high, high. 
 With a whoop and with a cry. 
 How he maddens them with grippe. 
 
 With the grippe, 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 83 
 
 Leaping high, high, high, 
 With black malice in his eye, 
 How he crazes them with grippe. 
 With the grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 How he dazes them with grippej» 
 Leaping high, high, high. 
 With a trip, trip, trip. 
 And a twinkle in his eye. 
 How he dances to the grippe, 
 To the grippe, grippe, grippe. 
 To the grinding of the grippe. 
 
 Of the grippe, grippe, grippe, 
 To the slashing and the smashing 
 
 Of the grippe. 
 
 IN GOD'S HANDS. 
 
 All things are in God's hands, 
 
 Life and death and joy and sorro'w; 
 All things obey his high commands. 
 
 He fashions each to-morrow. 
 All things, however great or higH, 
 
 All things, however small or low. 
 Are marked by his unslumb'ring e3^e. 
 
 As countless ages come and go. 
 
84 The Eyrie, 
 
 Spirit omnipotent and infinite, 
 
 The mind of man can never fathom thine! 
 
 Thou rulest in thy glory and thy might. 
 
 And we must needs obey thy laws divine. 
 
 —I 
 But, oh, thou art a King 
 
 Whose chief est attribute is love; 
 Then will we all thy praises sing, 
 
 Angels chant them up above. , 
 
 Through all the blinding pain that comes 
 
 Show us the purpose of thy grace, 
 Eeveal thou througl:^ the darkest storms. 
 
 The shining glory of thy face. 
 As through a glass we now but darkly see. 
 
 And thy designs can only feebly trace; 
 But thou hast promised in eternity, 
 
 We shall see all things clearly "face to face. 
 
 Soon life's short race is run. 
 
 Gone by the evils that betide. 
 Beyond a new life is begun. 
 
 0, Heavenly Father, be out guide. 
 Direct us in the paths of right, 
 
 While here our wayward footsteps stray. 
 Increase our love. Let faith's pure light. 
 
 Shine as a star above our way. 
 When we at last have burst the bonds of time, 
 
 And rise to thy fair realms of fadeless light. 
 We'll, in the joyful peace of that bright clime. 
 
 Forget the dreary darkness of earth's night. 
 
 y> 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 85 
 
 MY LOVE IS ALL AROUND THEE. 
 
 My love is all around thee, 
 
 A mystic, magic spell. 
 A flood of golden sunshine. 
 
 Wherein no dark may dwell. 
 Life's storms may gather round thee, 
 
 Heed not the tempest's roar, 
 My love will be the beacon 
 
 That guides thee safe to shore. 
 
 My love is all around thee ; 
 
 N"o evil can come near, 
 Not all the powers of darkness, 
 
 In league could harm thee, dear. 
 Temptation's siren voices. 
 
 May call thee day and night. 
 My love will be the anchor, 
 
 That moors thee to the right. 
 
 Mv love is all around thee ; 
 
 E'en in death's darksome hour, 
 ^Twill shed its perfume o'er thee, 
 
 Like some sweet fadeless flower. 
 And bv the crvstal river, 
 
 More deathless than a star, 
 Love's flower will bloom immortal 
 
 When we have ^'crossed the bar.*' 
 
86 The Eyrie, 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE MONSTROSITY. 
 
 By Gastox Pool. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 One morning in August, as I was sipping a glass 
 of Hock to steady my nerves after a swell banquet 
 at Delmonico's, the following telegram was handed 
 me: 
 
 "Mobile, Ala., August 16, 1878. 
 To John Loring, 
 
 Manhattan Club, 
 New York City. 
 
 I am critically ill. Business of importance. Come 
 at once. Arthur Boswell." 
 
 I read the message carefully, and arrived at 
 this conclusion : The old gentleman, my scape- 
 grace uncle, was about to die and leave me his for- 
 tune. 
 
 Arthur Bos well, my mother's uncle, had in '48, 
 committed a felony. He fled from his home to 
 escape the penalty of the law, and for two years led 
 the life of a fugitive in the great Dismal Swamp. 
 
 About the year 1850, he went to Mobile. Here 
 he had amassed, by precarious methods, a large 
 fortune. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 87 
 
 I had never seen my delectable granduncle, this 
 degenerate scion of a noble stock, but had heard his 
 history from my father. 
 
 You may be sure I had no wish to soothe the dy- 
 ing hours of my decrepit relative; but here was 
 an opportunity not to be lost. I seized it by the fore- 
 lock, and was the same day on my way to the 
 beautiful city on the Gulf. 
 
 It was night when I arrived in Mobile, but a 
 drive of twenty minutes brought me to my uncle's 
 residence. A withered negro crone received me 
 at the door, and showed me into a large room which 
 opened on the hall from the right. The room was 
 meanly furnished. The straggling remains of a 
 straw matting clung to the floor in spots. The 
 old, faded fustian curtains gave forth a heavy, 
 musty odor ; and the table, horse-hair sofa, and few 
 chairs which completed the interior decorations, 
 were rickety and wormeaten. A small kerosene 
 lamp, whose dismal light struggled through a very 
 dirty chimney, served to make the darkness visible. 
 
 The house (I discovered afterward) was old and 
 dilapidated. It was two stories high and con- 
 tained eight rooms. Two wide central passages — 
 one above, the other below stairs — divided the 
 mansion exactly into halves; and upon these halls 
 the upper and lower rooms opened respectively. 
 A spacious, old-fashioned porch, and a balconv 
 above shaded by huge red cedars, afforded a cool 
 retreat durino; the hot weather. The vard was 
 large, and contained several outbuildings, all in 
 a tumble-down condition. 
 
 When I had finished a very meager supper, the 
 harridan conducted me to my uncle's apartment, 
 
88 ' The Eyrie, 
 
 the second room to the left on the second floor. 
 The wide, empty, resounding halls were involved 
 in Cimmerian blackness. I could see nothing — ■ 
 could only follow the echoing footsteps of the hag. 
 
 When we reached the room the old woman mut- 
 tered in my ear: "Don^t be frightened. They 
 won't hurt you ;^^ and threw open the door. 
 
 I was instantly blinded — completely overwhelmed 
 — by the flood of dazzling light which enveloped 
 me. At the same moment a violent uproar smote 
 upon my ears. 
 
 In two or three minutes my eyes became accus- 
 tomed to the light, and I advanced into the room. 
 
 The walls were done in azure with gold trim- 
 mings, and hung with a few fine oil paintings. 
 The furniture was upholstered in blue and gold 
 ' — an arabesque design on a blue ground — to match 
 the walls and ceiling. Persian and Turkish rugs 
 were scattered about the floor, which was waxed 
 over a hard oil finish. The curtains of blue and 
 gold brocade were artistically draped about the tall 
 windows. Blue and gold prevailed in the tone 
 of the bed-hangings, the easy-chairs, and a Japan- 
 ese lacquered table which stood near the center of 
 the room. A powerful arc lamp, of four hundred 
 candle-power, depended from the ceiling, and glared 
 with burly brightness through the apartment. 
 
 The old man was reclining on a small Turkish 
 divan, rich with Oriental embroideries. His two 
 dogs lay crouched beside him on the skin of some 
 wild jungle beast, snarling and growling fearfully. 
 
 One was a bulldog of enormous size, deep- 
 mouthed, wide-chested and tawny. The bristles 
 of his neck, now standing erect in his angry trans- 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 89 
 
 port, were long, thick and shaggy, and resembled 
 the mane of an African lion. His bloodshot eyes 
 gleamed with a lurid fire; his tail oscillated with 
 repressed rage; his terrible fangs gnashed threat- 
 eningly. The other was a pure-bred bloodhound, 
 not so fierce; but there was that in his determined 
 aspect, his deeply-divided nostrils, his hanging 
 jaws and his somber glance which might well ter- 
 rify the bravest. Heavy steel collars, to which were 
 attached strong chains, encircled the necks of these 
 formidable body-guards. These chains their mas- 
 ter held in his hands, and restrained by word and 
 gesture their impatience at my intrusion. 
 
 The owner of the dogs, reposing nonchalantly 
 on the Turkish divan, was a tall, spare man, whose 
 age it would be difficult to determine. Over his 
 angular jaws and sharp chin the sallow skin was 
 tightly drawn, but his lorehead was embossed with 
 numberless wrinkles. His iron-gray hair, of 
 which he had an abundance, was close-cut behind 
 and brushed up in the pompadour style. His pale, 
 gray eyes looked out under heavy brows. He was 
 clean-shaven, and a chronic sneer lurked in the 
 lines about his mouth. His hands were delicate 
 and well-kept, and his feet gracefully modeled. 
 He wore a black China silk dressing-gown, em- 
 broidered with yellow chrysanthemums, a low-cut 
 white silk vest, black pantaloons, white tie and dia- 
 mond-studs. Turkish slippers and a scarlet fez 
 completed his costume and revealed his Oriental 
 tastes. 
 
 "So you are my nephew, John Loring?" said 
 my uncle, in a high, thin voice. "Heaven knows 
 I am glad to see you. This seems a strange recep- 
 
90 The Eyrie, 
 
 tion, I know, but yon must make allowances, my 
 dear sir — you must make allowances for the vaga- 
 ries of an old man. These dogs are the best friends 
 I have in the world. They love me, they fear 
 me, they protect me. And I return their affec- 
 tion. Am I not right, sir?'^ 
 
 I replied that nothing could be more natural. 
 
 "Cerberus sleeps in this room, and Argus in 
 the hall below. Oh, you^ll soon get acquainted 
 with them," laughed the old man. "Throw a sop 
 to Cerberus, and you'll easily propitiate him. He 
 differs from his Plutonic prototype in having but 
 one head, but his reasoning powers are much bet- 
 ter developed than were those of the triple-headed 
 guardian of Pluto's dominions. He knows his 
 friends and mine. In a little while he will rec- 
 ognize you as a kinsman. Observe his frontal 
 development, his corrugated brow, the seat of the 
 reason, and his intellectual expression. 
 
 "I told 3'ou I had business of importance to com- 
 municate — and I have. But to-morrow I will ex- 
 plain myself. You are tired. I will ring for 
 Sarah to show you to your room," and he touched 
 an electric bell. 
 
 By this time the dogs had become reconciled to 
 my presence in the room, and had ceased their 
 hostile demonstrations. Taking advantage of their 
 quiescence, my uncle dropped the chains he had 
 been holding, rose from the sofa, and advanced 
 with stately, though feeble steps to shake hands 
 with me before I retired. 
 
 As his nervous hand closed on mine in cordial 
 grasp — the first opportunity we had had of ex- 
 changing this courtesy — ^his hard lips relaxed in 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 91 
 
 a genial smile. I saw I had made a favorable im- 
 pression. 
 
 "Can I do anj^thing for you before retiring?" 
 I said. 
 
 "Xothing, thank yon. Sarah and the dogs will 
 take care of me. I shall let you know when you 
 can be of service. 
 
 "We must mend our fare, Sarah — and give him 
 the best bed-chamber. Remember that my 
 nephew, John, is the darling of the New York' 
 clubs, and we must do what we can to make him 
 comfortable. 
 
 "Come to me at ten in the morning," he said, 
 addressing me. 
 
 I promised to be promptly on hand, and we 
 parted for the night. 
 
 Sarah led the way across the hall to the room 
 opposite my uncle's. It was large, airy, and 
 plainly but comfortably furnished. 
 
 When I was left alone, I lighted a cigar, and 
 drawing a willow rocker close to the window be- 
 gan to speculate upon my uncle's eccentricities. 
 I had not been long seated when I heard the door 
 opposite my own open. This was immediately 
 followed by the bounding of the two dogs in the 
 passage, and my uncle's voice saying: 
 
 "Cerberus ! Argus ! Do your duty." 
 
 Then they went down the stairs in great leaps. 
 Sarah let them out at the front door, and they 
 proceeded to inspect the premises. They soon re- 
 turned, but when admitted into the house, one re- 
 mained below to guard the front door, while the 
 other took his place at the bedside of his master. 
 I learned afterward that this nightly inspection was 
 
92 The Eyrie, 
 
 never omitted. The next morning at ten o'clock 
 sharp, I presented myself in my nncle^s apart- 
 ments. 
 
 He received me graciously, saying: 
 
 "Good morning, John. I hope yon slept well. 
 I had rather a bad night. The pain in my kid- 
 neys troubled me a good deal.'^ 
 
 I told him I had slept tJie sweet sleep of the 
 innocent, and expressed concern at his physical 
 condition. 
 
 "Yes, I am likely to die any day. I have al- 
 ready lasted longer than my physicians thought 
 possible. I have to be kept under the influence 
 of narcotics nearly all the time. I am going to 
 die, John — and soon, very soon. I am haunted 
 at night by hideous specters. Grim monsters from 
 the nether world leer at me from the wall. They 
 whisper, they giggle, they make the most horrible 
 grimaces. Sometimes they beckon me to join in 
 their infernal games — sometimes hurl terrible 
 curses at my defenseless head." 
 
 AVhile describing his hallucinations the poor 
 man worked himself up to a fearful pitch of ex- 
 citement. It was painful to see the twitching of 
 his mouth and eyelids, his weak tremblings, and 
 his ghastly pallor. I now understood why he kept 
 that brilliant light burning all night in his room. 
 
 I hastily mixed a glass of brandy and water, 
 which revived him greatly, and he was soon him- 
 self again. I insisted that the goblins who haunted 
 his couch were mere delusions of the imagination 
 — freaks of an overwrought fancy, superinduced 
 by the opiates he took. 
 
 He listened to my arguments with attention, 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 93 
 
 but made no reply. I think, however, they af- 
 forded him some comfort. 
 
 I began to assiduously cultivate the acquaint- 
 ance of Cerberus and Argus. I not only "threw 
 a sop to Cerberus" in the form of a mutton chop, 
 but likewise one to Argus, to prevent any jealousy 
 on his part. In a few days we had become fast 
 friends. 
 
 One day my uncle said : "John, let^s talk busi- 
 ness. I sent for you to take charge of my af- 
 fairs. I can get nobody whom I can trust. I 
 have been worried to death by incompetent and 
 untrustworthy agents. You are my relative — I 
 have no friends except my dogs ; and I shall make 
 you my heir. I want you to learn matters of busi- 
 ness. I want you to learn to make money and 
 keep it. My estate is large, and requires manage- 
 ment. I want to leave it in good hands. You 
 must take care of it and build it up. You have 
 a lifetime before you. In thirty years, by judicious 
 handling, you may make it rival Astor's or Van- 
 derbilfs.^' 
 
 I thanked him warmly for his kind intentions, 
 and promised obedience to his wishes. 
 
 All that day we looked over books and papers ; 
 notes, mortgages, stocks, bonds and rent rolls. The 
 next day I went to work in earnest, and was sur- 
 prised to find that I rather enjoyed it. In two 
 wrecks I had collected more than ten thousand dol- 
 lars, and the old man was greatly pleased with my 
 exertions. For three months I worked hard — de- 
 voting myself exclusively to business. At the end 
 of that time I was as familiar with my uncle's af- 
 
94 The Eyrie, 
 
 fairs as he was himself^ and had completely gained 
 his confidence. 
 
 These three months had drasr^ed Arthur Bos- 
 well rapidly towards the grave. He already looked 
 like a dead man ; but I had done my duty, and had 
 nothing with which to reproach myself. 
 
 One morning, towards the latter part of Novem- 
 ber, I took Uncle Arthur for a drive. It was one 
 of those bright, mild days so often seen in the 
 Indian summer of the South ; but the sick man 
 shivered as with internal cold. Still he talked 
 cheerfully, and seemed in unusually good spirits. 
 When we were passing the cemetery he bade me 
 drive in. 
 
 "I want to show you my tomb,'^ said he. 
 
 I wondered what he meant, but said nothing. 
 
 He directed me where to stop, and I assisted him 
 to alight. 
 
 Within a neat iron railing was a white mar- 
 ble edifice, built in imitation of a Hindoo tem- 
 ple. This exquisite tomb enclosed two massive 
 marble sarcophagi of ornate design. One of these 
 held the remains of his only brother, the other 
 was destined for his own resting place. A Smyrna 
 carpet covered the floor, oil paintings adorned the 
 walls, and statues of heathen goddesses were 
 ranged on either side of the sarcophagi. 
 
 While I gazed in wonder and admiration on 
 the beautiful mausoleum, my uncle smiled com- 
 placently, and asked me if I could imagine any- 
 thing more enchanting. 
 
 I heaped the highest encomiums on the skill 
 and taste displayed by the architect who conceived 
 and executed this chef-dwuvre in monumental 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 95 
 
 marble. The old gentleman seemed highly de- 
 lighted at m}^ enthusiasm, and himself delivered 
 a paneg}Tic on the beauties of his tern plum de mar- 
 m ore. 
 
 "The knowledge that my dust shall be consigned 
 to imperishable marble, and roofed over by this 
 temple of ideal beauty, almost reconciles me to 
 the thought of death,^^ he said. 
 
 Three days after this visit to the cemetery, Ar- 
 thur Boswell died. By the provisions of his will. 
 Cerberus and Argus were each granted an annuitv 
 of two hundred dollars during their lives. Except- 
 ing these annuities, and small bequests to his two 
 servants, I was the sole legatee. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 I NOW found myself in possession of property 
 valued at three million dollars. Strange as it mav 
 seem, now that I was a wealthy man, I had no 
 desire to return to my old, idle, aimless life. Mv 
 views had changed. I had imbibed some of my 
 uncle's ideas, and was now fired with an ambi"^ 
 tion to swell my fortune to vast proportions. Dur- 
 ing my short apprenticeship in the care of my un- 
 cle's affairs, I had developed a genius for busi- 
 ness which surprised me. I found an active, bus- 
 tling life much more agreeable than lounging in 
 club-rooms, or dawdling at "five o'clock teas." "My 
 health was fine, and I was ready to begin the strug- 
 gle for more millions. After clearing off my debts 
 I settled down to work in Mobile. I had the old 
 house thoroughly repaired, repainted, and refur- 
 nished, and decided upon my uncle's room as my 
 
()6 The Eyrie, 
 
 sleeping apartment — it being the pleasantest and 
 best appointed room in the house. Sarah and 
 Aaron, Uncle Arthur's old servants^, remained with 
 me ; the dogs occupied their old quarters ; and I felt 
 happy in the new possession of my renovated 
 bachelor's domicile. 
 
 I spent three weeks in N"ew York, on business, 
 and on my return occupied my new room for the 
 first time. I was well pleased with the improve- 
 ments throughout the house (which had been com- 
 pleted during my absence), but was particularly 
 delighted with my new bedchamber. Here noth- 
 ing was changed — except that I had had a twenty- 
 four candle-power incandescent globe substituted 
 for the powerful arc lamp. The dogs evinced al- 
 most human grief at Uncle Arthur's death, but 
 they fawned upon me to-night with evident de- 
 light at my return, and seemed to recognize me as 
 their new master. I let them out at ten o'clock 
 for their nightly inspection, and then Cerberus re- 
 turned to his post of duty. I was smoking a 
 Cubana, and looking over an evening paper, when 
 the light suddenly went out. I attributed the cir- 
 cumstance to an abrupt break in the electric cur- 
 rent, through something amiss with the machinery 
 of the plant, and waited a few minutes to see if 
 the light would reappear. In the meantime I 
 noticed, by the light of the fire, that Cerberus sat 
 upon his haunches about two yards distant, growl- 
 ing sullenly. He was looking towards the middle 
 of the room, and a vague fear dwelt in his eyes. 
 I called him twice before he came to my side, and 
 even then he kept his eyes fixed on the same spot, 
 and never ceased his low growling. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 97 
 
 I spoke to him soothingly, but he paid no at- 
 tention. What could be the matter? To see this 
 ferocious dog, the Ajax of his race, quail at a 
 shadow, was inexplicable. 
 
 Becoming impatient to resume my reading, I 
 stepped under the lamp to see what was wrong with 
 it. As I did so a wave of cold air came from the 
 direction of the door, as if it had been opened 
 and shut noiselessly. I tried the stopcock, and was 
 surprised to find that the light had been turned off 
 by something or somebody in the room. As the 
 light again flashed through the apartment Cer- 
 berus sprang towards the door, barking furiously. 
 I rushed downstairs in pursuit of what I took to 
 be a sneak thief, who had somehow gained an en- 
 trance to the room without my knowledge. But 
 when I got as far as the front door I stopped to 
 consider. There was Argus lying quietly before 
 the door, and I knew the thief could not have es- 
 caped that way without a terrible struggle with 
 the vigilant bloodhound. 
 
 Cerberus would not join the pursuit, but sulked 
 at his post. So I took Argus, and we made a 
 thorough search of the house and grounds, but 
 could find no trace of the miscreant. 
 
 Eeturning disappointed to my room, I was soon 
 absorbed in an article on the race problem. 
 
 I had been reading more than a quarter of an 
 hour, when the light disappeared as suddenly and 
 mvsteriouslv as at first. Thinking to catch the 
 marauder this time, I made a quick dash towards 
 the lamp, but my outstretched hands grasped only 
 empty air, and I heard a mocking laugh, as if 
 at my discomfiture. The situation was be- 
 
98 The Eyrie, 
 
 coming interesting. My "ancle's ghosts were evi- 
 dently taking liberties with me. It was plain 
 that I could not depend on Cerberus as an ally 
 against spirits and demons, for he was crouched 
 behind the stove uttering lugubrious growls. 
 
 Being naturally fearless and even reckless in 
 disposition, I felt no alarm at what appeared to 
 be a supernatural manifestation. But the conduct 
 of Cerberus filled me with astonishment. In a 
 little while, however, his courage returned, and 
 he seemed to feel ashamed of his former cowardice. 
 
 As the ghost seemed to object to a light, I con- 
 cluded to go to bed in the dark. I put a 38-caliber 
 revolver under my pillow, thinking I might have 
 occasion to use it during the night, by way of amus- 
 ing my quondam visitor. I soon fell into a sound 
 sleep, which lasted until two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. The moment my eyes opened I saw that a 
 luminous haze filled the room. At the same time 
 my olfactories were saluted with as foul a smell 
 as ever emanated from a charnel house. The lu- 
 minosity seemed not to proceed from a central 
 focus, but generally to pervade the atmosphere. 
 This chameleon-like vapor assumed varying tones 
 of color; shifting from somber tints of amber and 
 drab to hues gorgeous as the most brilliant Tyrian 
 dyes: then changing again to that peculiar green- 
 ish glow which the lampyrid^e emit in tropic lati- 
 tudes, it finally settled into a pale, blue, sulphur- 
 ous flame, which wreathed itself in forked tongues 
 through the mist, and lapped it up with a hissing 
 sound. The strong smell of brimstone, mingling 
 with some heavier, subtler and more detestable 
 odor, was nearly stifling me, and I started up to 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 99 
 
 open a window. Just as I raised myself to a sit- 
 ting posture in bed, I happened to glance towards 
 the stove, and I could feel my hair rise on end 
 with horror at the ghastly spectacle I beheld. 
 
 Through the pale flicker of the noxious vapor, 
 I saw, seated in my armchair before the fire, a 
 thing so gross, so foul, so strange that my reason 
 reeled and my circulation stopped. A creature in 
 the likeness of a man, but with lineaments more 
 hideous, and deformity more grotesque than fiend 
 of hell or goblin damned. His limbs were gnarled 
 and twisted like the branches of an oak, an enor- 
 mous liver-colored wen crowned the top of his skull 
 and gave him the appearance of having two heads. 
 His lumbar vertebrae was elongated to an abnor- 
 mal degree, so that he could not lean back in his 
 chair. His attitude permitted me to see his deep- 
 sunk, saurian eyes, his beetling brows, his cavernous 
 jaws, his blubber lips and his protruding yellow 
 fangs. His nondescript garments were old, tat- 
 tered, and reeking with dank fumes, and his mis- 
 shapen feet were encased in huge felt slippers. 
 
 Eecovering somewhat from the shock I expe- 
 rienced at first sight of the apparition, I drew my 
 revolver, leveled it at the head of the monster, and 
 fired five times in rapid succession. When the 
 smoke of battle cleared away, I looked eagerly for 
 my adversary. He was nowhere to be seen. Cer- 
 berus was obstreperous in his demonstrations of 
 joy, Sarah hurried in with a light, and two po- 
 licemen quickly followed to learn the cause of the 
 disturbance. 
 
 I knew they would not believe me if I told them 
 the truth, so I lied, telling them I had been at- 
 
lOO The Eyrie, 
 
 tacked by a burglar. This statement satisfied the 
 officers, and they went off in search of the sup- 
 posed felon, but Sarah seemed much upest by the 
 night's adventure. 
 
 Weeks elapsed, and though the picture of the 
 monster was indelibly photographed on my retina, 
 I had lost all apprehension of a return of his 
 visits. 
 
 It was the 12th of January, 1879. I had con- 
 cluded a heavy deal in cotton, and was jubilant- 
 at the prospect of gaining twenty per cent. To 
 celebrate the day's transaction, I invited a few 
 friends to dine with me. At seven o'clock the 
 guests had all arrived. There was Jack Dawson, 
 the bank clerk; Tom Harrigan, the funny man; 
 Eoland Bledsoe, President Chamber of Commerce; 
 Charlie Loran, the local poet; James Duke, cot- 
 ton merchant, and Hugh Redpath Abbottsfield, edi- 
 tor and orator. 
 
 We were seated around a large circular table 
 in the banqueting hall, otherwise known as the din- 
 ing-room. Silver and cut-glass sparkled on the 
 board. The center piece was a floral dragon 
 mounted on an epergne of chased oxidized sil- 
 ver. The menu was elaborate and the conviviality 
 contagious. Toasts, bon-mots, jokes and songs were 
 the order of the night. 
 
 "Here's to the health of our gracious host," said 
 the cotton factor, rising, and holding up to the 
 light his glass of Cliquot. "May his life be long, 
 his love be true, and his wealth increase." 
 
 "And," added Tom Harrigan, "may his head 
 never swell and his heart never shrink." 
 
 "Amen," quoth the company, rising to the toast, 
 
And Other Southern Stones. loi 
 
 and in a twinkling seven empty glasses struck the 
 table with a clatter. 
 
 Fast and frantic grew the mirth, as the differ- 
 ent wines circulated around the board and through 
 the veins of the imbibers. 
 
 Charlie Loran gushed over with poetry. Tom 
 Harrigan's frothy wit bubbled up like the sparkling 
 champagne. Even the pompous and dignified 
 Bledsoe became a maudlin sentimentalist. Twelve 
 times boomed the brazen bell of the city clock, but 
 it interrupted not the revelry. 
 
 "'Tis the witching hour of midnight/' drawled 
 Charlie Loran. "Look to yourself, Jack, when 
 you venture out on the frozen boulevards of this 
 tropic city." 
 
 "You are drunk, Charlie Loran, beastly drunk. 
 I repudiate the insinuation with scorn," roared 
 Jack Dawson. And then he broke out with the 
 following Bacchanalian ditty: 
 
 ''When you kiss a pretty girl. 
 
 And she goes and tells her mother, 
 When you Inss a pretty girl. 
 
 And she goes and tells her another. 
 May she live to he an old maid. 
 May she live to he an old maid. 
 May she live to he an old maid. 
 And never get another. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 ^'Landlord, fill the flowing howl. 
 Until it does run over. 
 Landlord, fill the flowing howl. 
 Until it does run over. 
 
102 The Eyrie, 
 
 For to-night we'll merry, merry he. 
 For to-night we'll merry, merry he. 
 For to-night we'll m,erry, merry he. 
 And to-morrow we'll get soher/' 
 
 The orgy reached its height. Jack Dawson was 
 in the middle of his song, when he stopped as sud- 
 denly as if he had been shot. His jaw dropped, 
 his cheek blanched, and a look of horror grew on 
 his face. 
 
 "What's the matter, Jack? Have you got the 
 snakes?" called out the Hon. Eedpath Abbotts- 
 field. 
 
 "Perhaps he sees a spirit to-night. What won- 
 der they have got into his imagination." 
 
 The object of their gibes answered not, but 
 stared with dull and glassy eyes over the head 
 of his vis-a-vis. 
 
 Curiosity, or the vague apprehension begotten 
 of another's fear, prompted the company with one 
 accord, to turn their looks in the clirection taken 
 by the fixed and baleful gaze of the horrified bank- 
 teller. And had the head of the fabled gorgon 
 appeared in our midst it could not have created 
 greater consternation. With bristling hair, frozen 
 eyes, and rigid muscles, their countenances seemed 
 really hardened into stone. For there, in the room, 
 within ten feet of us, stood the nameless horror 
 who had visited me on that memorable night when 
 I first slept in my uncle's chamber. In the bright, 
 mellow light diffused by the wax candles, the 
 frightful form of the monster appeared with hide- 
 ous distinctness. His ophidian glance traveled 
 around the board. He advanced. He extended 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 103 
 
 his right hand, clasping a glittering tube. A vola- 
 tile gas escaped. The lights grew dim and blurred. 
 The fiend laughed. 
 
 It was then that I recovered the power of speech, 
 and mustering my courage, thus addressed the 
 goblin : 
 
 "Are you vampire, spirit, ghoul or demon? and 
 what is your commission upon earth ? Speak ! 
 though your voice be terrible as the belching of 
 Vesuvius." 
 
 "I am thy father's spirit. Doomed for a cer- 
 tain time to walk the night ; and, for the day, con- 
 fined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes, done in 
 my days of nature, are burnt and purged away/' 
 replied the spirit, in a harsh and rumbling voice. 
 
 A silence of some minutes followed this declama- 
 tion, during which the specter seemed buried in 
 thought. At last he broke the silence with these 
 words : 
 
 . "Sir Knights of the Eound Table, your deeds 
 of valor and chivalry have been the theme of the 
 poet and ""h^ minstrel for a thousand years; but 
 you did not know the great Shakespeare — Francis 
 Bacon, some called him. He was the greatest man 
 who ever lived execept Dan Eice. The convolu- 
 tions of Dan's brain enclosed nuggets of wit as 
 large as hen's eggs. His shining ability as a con- 
 tortionist made him world-famous — and he ate 
 himself up with chopsticks. 
 
 "Ah, there is my cousin. King Arthur," he con- 
 tinued, looking at me. "Strange, I have just ob- 
 served him. But he is looking remarkably well. 
 
 "Gentlemen, behold in me the uncouth offspring 
 of a criminal father. 
 
104 The Eyrie, 
 
 "Here, judge if hell, with all its power to damn, 
 can add one curse to the foul thing I am. 
 
 "This vile and loathsome husk, fouler than 
 Frankenstein's demon or the Veiled Prophet of 
 Ivhorassan, masks the soul of a poet and the gen- 
 ius of a scientist. I have delved in the pro- 
 fundities of the earth. I have been the disciple 
 of Cagiiostro; and have mastered the secrets of 
 esoteric chemistry." 
 
 So saying, he took from an inside pocket a small 
 box containing a poAvder, which he sprinkled on 
 the floor. Then walking, or rather gliding (for, 
 notwithstanding his misshapen feet his movements 
 were singularly lithe and stealthy) in a circle 
 around the powder, he muttered some mystic in- 
 cantation. In a moment a lambent flame sprang 
 into being. It rose from the carpet. It floated 
 above our heads. It was of the color of blood. Its 
 ernbescence ruddied the upturned features of the 
 guests. 
 
 "You look with terror on that gory flame," said 
 the harsh and hollow voice of the demon. "Think 
 what the lake of perdition must be, and I — 
 
 " 'My hour is almost come, 
 
 When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames 
 Mu^t render up myself f " 
 
 Saying which, he threw some subtle fluid on the 
 flame, that instantly dissolved it in a crimson 
 shower. 
 
 The nervous tension was too great for human 
 endurance. Syncope intervened, and when I re- 
 covered consciousness I was alone. An open win- 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 105 
 
 dow near at hand, revealed the manner of egress 
 of my guests. They had taken French leave, I 
 followed their example and leaped from the win- 
 dow. I slept at the Gulf House that night. 
 
 The next morning I sent word to Sarah that 
 I should for the present, take up my quarters at 
 the hotel. She asked for an interview, saying she 
 had important communications to make. Her re- 
 quest being granted, she told the following story, 
 in a dialect which I shall translate : 
 
 Twenty-six years previous to the date of this 
 narrative, Arthur Boswell had formed a liaison 
 with a deformed Creole, for whom he had con- 
 tracted a strange passion. The unhappy offspring 
 of this illicit union was (as might have been ex- 
 pected in some degree) a prodigious malforma- 
 tion of nature. A being so distorted as scarcely 
 to bear a semblance to the human species. In pro- 
 portion as the father hated, reviled and condemned 
 him, the mother lavished upon the child of sin the 
 treasures of maternal affection. At the age of 
 ten the child was well advanced in his studies, 
 under the direction of a private tutor, whom his 
 father grudgingly allowed. As is frequently the 
 case in the compensations of nature, the deformed 
 body was endowed with a most precocious mind. 
 His vigorous intellect greedily absorbed the ele- 
 ments of knowledge, and he often elicited the ad- 
 miration of his tutor by evidences of a superior 
 mental and moral nature. About this time that 
 malignant scourge, yellow fever, claimed for its 
 victim the only friend he had — his mother. Re- 
 ceived into his father's house, not from the nat- 
 ural sentiments of love or pity, but from the fear 
 
io6 The Eyrie, 
 
 that the secret of his birth might otherwise be 
 discovered, he was kept in the most rigid confine- 
 ment; being concealed in tlie attic from all eyes, 
 save those of his tutor, who daily visited him, and 
 Sarah, to whose care he was confided. 
 
 The boy grew to be a man. His life had been 
 devoted to the cultivation of his mind. His eru- 
 dition was profound. He had mastered the lore 
 of the sages of old. He was deeply versed in litera- 
 ture. He had cultivated the mystic sciences, and 
 he was particularly addicted to experimental chem- 
 istry. The poor creature's fondness for Sarah, the 
 only person (except his tutor) who showed him 
 kindness, was touching, and she learned to love him 
 in return. The sweet temper, the docile man- 
 ners, the pitiable condition of this being, cursed 
 and blighted from his birth, won from the good old 
 negress sincere sympathy and genuine affection. 
 
 As he grew older his mind became morbid; his 
 long confinement quelled his spirit and quenched 
 the ardor of his youth. His father's hatred was 
 agony to him; he felt his intellectual superiority, 
 yet was denied the privilege of associating with his 
 fellow man. His maimed and horrible physique 
 was a terror to himself. He was outcast of man- 
 kind. He brooded over a thousand wrongs, real 
 and imaginary. He railed at the injustice of God 
 and man. 
 
 Gradually, as the years rolled on, madness fas- 
 tened upon his brain, and he had been for two 
 years hopelessly insane. 
 
 Shortlv before his death, mv uncle had informed 
 Sarah of his intention of disinheriting his natural 
 son, and making me his heir. 
 
And Other Southern Stories. 107 
 
 Being imwilling to confess to me his terrible se- 
 cret he had confided to his old and valued servant 
 the sole charge of her protege, bequeathing her a 
 considerable legacy in consequence. Recent events 
 had alarmed Sarah for the safety of her charge, 
 and her conscience nrged her, on my account as 
 well as his, to make me her confidant — hence the 
 foregoing revelations. 
 
 The reader will doubtless have guessed the iden- 
 tity of the goblin. The unfortunate son of Uncle 
 Arthur was removed, by my directions, to a private 
 asylum, where I knew he would receive every at- 
 tention from the humane management. I visited 
 him often, and in his lucid intervals found him 
 a delightful conversationalist. His was as strange 
 a case as was that of the famous Elephant-man, 
 the sight of whom made women faint and men turn 
 sick. 
 
 He died young, being spared the pain of lin- 
 gering in a world where he would always have 
 been regarded with disgust and horror. 
 
 Some further explanations regarding the mys- 
 terious occurrences related in this history may 
 be necessary, and I give them as far as I am able. 
 
 It has alreadv been said that the movements of 
 the monster were singularly noiseless and stealthy, 
 and this peculiarity, considered together with the 
 facility for concealing himself in the attic (which 
 was never searched), may account for his sudden 
 and mysterious appearance and disappearance. The 
 almost supernatural dread evinced by Cerberus for 
 the son of his master, can only be accounted for 
 on the ground that his brute instinct recognized in 
 the madman an implacable enemy (the maniac 
 
io8 The Eyrie. 
 
 hated the dog) ; and who shall say but that his 
 canine soul quailed with a pseudo-human fear at 
 the uncanny attributes of the strange apparition. 
 
 As to the creation of the magic and gory 
 flame I can olfer no solution^ unless it be that the 
 savant had discovered the secret in the course of 
 his learned researches in esoteric science, or had 
 accidentally hit upon it in his scientific experi- 
 ments. 
 
 It may be asked how the maniac escaped death 
 at my hands on the night 'nrhen I fired five shots 
 at him. I tliink that is easily explained. Being 
 half dead with fright, my aim must have been 
 very unsteady, and the shots consequently fell 
 wide of the mark. 
 
 With these explanations, such as they are, I close 
 this tale. I do not ask the reader to accept them, 
 but to form his own conclusions from the facts 
 herein set forth. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 $1.50. 
 
 /"No wiser or more brilliant pen has told the story of 
 'the Civil War than CapL Floyd's ; no work more thrilling 
 Uimply as a romance has recently been within the reach 
 lof book-lovers." 
 
I 
 
 BOOKS YOV NVST READ 
 SOONER OR LATER 
 
 Told &t Twilight 
 
 By Eva Browne. 
 
 Aldelightful collection of stories and poems^, 
 
 (^Author's photo.) 
 
 $1.00.. 
 
 Job Trotter 
 
 By Sylvester Field. > 
 50c. ^ 
 
 A unique work, proving that the "earthly paradise" 
 of the colored race is Africa. This book is decidedly 
 tbe best- work that has yet appeared on the subject. f 
 
 TKeJ^SiA of Ignorance 
 
 By Henrietta Siegel. 
 $1.00. 
 
 An exceedingly clever story, by a New York girl, who 
 'pictures with a fearless hand the domestic misery result- 
 ing from ^ drink and dissipation. 
 
 (4 special _ drawings.) 
 
 ! 
 
BOOKS YOU MUST R.EAD 
 SOONER. OR. LATER. 
 
 Llewellyn 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 By Hadley S. Kimberlinq. 
 
 Cloth. $1.50. 
 5 Illustrations byS. Klarr. 
 
 Here is a story whose artistic realism will appeal to 
 everyone, while its distinction as a serious novel is made 
 evident by its clever anaJysis, sparkling dialogue and 
 thrilling and powerful situations. "Llewellyn" will win 
 all hearts by her purity and charm. 
 
 Se^tatv of the Modern World 
 
 By E. G. Doyen.. 
 
 l2mo, cloth, handsomely produced. 
 
 $1.50. 
 
 . ._ • . - ^ 
 
 The title of this book will arouse curiosity, and its 
 
 brilliant contents will fully reward the wide public which 
 
 it will reach. 
 
 A Missourian*s Honor 
 
 By W. W. Arnold., 
 
 Cloth, i2mo. $1.00. 
 
 3 Illustrations., 
 
 L. 
 
BOOKS YOV NVST READ 
 SOONER OR. LATER 
 
 Ldkdy Century 
 
 4 
 
 iBv MRa A. Gu Kintzei^, 
 ^4 Drawings by Hartman.^ 
 Decorated cover in black, red and go13^ 
 ^$1.50. 
 
 Critics who have seen the book declare it'superior to 
 "Leave Me My Honor," the success which has recently 
 brought Mrs. Kintzel into prominence as a story-teller 
 who has something to say and can say it.' 
 
 "Sparkling from cover to cover." 
 
 Order now and join the processiot»_oii the autumn, 
 loth edition. 
 
 i 
 i 
 
 NAN e, SUE 
 
 I Stenographers 
 
 "^By Harriet C. Cullaton^ 
 
 $1.00. i 
 
 You've no 'doubt heard of this book !"^ It ~ stands' att 
 alone in the originality of its title and subject, and every- 
 one knows how charming a subject "Nan & Sue, Ste- 
 nographers," must be. It is the diary of a typewritings 
 office in New York run by two young and pretty girls, 
 who have flie most amusing adventures. The book's ap- 
 pearance is as original and charming as Nan and Sue 
 themselves. 
 
 I 
 
 itflH 
 
BOOKS YOV MUST READ 
 SOONER OR LATER 
 
 The Instrument Tuned 
 
 By Rosa B. Hitt: 
 Attractive Binding, 75 cents.'. 
 Limited Edition in White and Gold, $CjOO, 
 (Author's photo) 
 
 I'An able and interesting work on a comparatively new 
 subject — Psycho-physical culture — of whose methods the 
 author has made successful application. The book is full 
 of common-sense suggestions and is admirably adapted 
 to the needs of humanity in general. 
 
 The chapter-captions will give an excellent idea of the. 
 comprehensive and practical character of the work:. 
 
 Various Therapeutic Agents.^ 
 
 Influence of Mind. 
 
 Extravagant Emotions! 
 
 Insomnia. 
 
 Relaxation. 
 
 Harmony the Law of NatOTeJ 
 
 Order J^dtsf 
 
 All of the books named in this magazine to be had 
 'from any newsdealer, or 
 
BOOKS YOU MUST READ 
 SOONER OR. LATER 
 
 A Tale of the Revolution 
 
 Bv WiLUBERT Davis and Claudia Brannom. 
 
 l2mo, cloth. Illustrated. 
 
 $i.oo. 
 
 A fascinating story of the Revolutionary period, in 
 dramatic form, in which the treachery of Benedict 
 Arnold and the capture of Major Andre are the climaxes. 
 The loves of Andre and Marcelle (herself a spy) lend aj 
 very charming touch of romance. 
 
 The Burton Manor 
 
 A NOVEL i 
 
 By Rev. M. V. Brown. 
 i2mo, cloth. $1.50. 
 
 A most thoughtful, able and authoritative work in 
 
 Engaging narrative form, dealing with the existing evils 
 
 of the liquor trade. The author has wisely embodied 
 
 his conclusions in charming fiction— or fact? — and thus 
 
 the book will appeal to a public as wide as the continent. 
 
BOOKS YOU NVST READ 
 SOONER. OR LATER 
 
 Kew Book by the Author of 
 
 A Girl and the Devil ! 
 
 We beg to announce for autumn a new novel from 
 the pen of Jeannette Llewellyn Edwards, entitled 
 
 LOVE IN THE TROPICS 
 
 The scene of Miss Edwards' new work is laid in 
 strange lands, and a treat may be confidently prom- 
 ised the wide reading public whose interest in her first 
 book has caused it to run through over a dozen editions. 
 
 LOVE IN THE TROPICS" 
 
 «• 
 
 tifill be ready about J^O'Oetnber 1, and 
 particular's tvill be duly announced,' 
 
 The New Woma.nhood 
 
 Bv Win XI FRED H. Cooley. 
 
 $1.25. 
 
 No more ongmal, strikmg and brilliant treatise on 
 the subject indicated by the title has been given the 
 vast public which is watchmg the widenmg of woman's 
 sphere. Mrs. Cooley is a lecturer and writer of many 
 years experience ; she is in the vanguard of the move- 
 ment and no one is better qualified to speak to the great 
 heart of womankind. 
 
mti^^^f- 
 
 %JT^^«' 
 
 
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