rinning group of Africans to the centre of the lawn, where
several large packing boxes, and a long table, something like a
carpenter's bench, were piled high with a miscellaneous assortment of
dry goods and groceries.

'Now, all you dat hab heads, come up yere,' shouted Joe, seating himself
on the bench; 'but don't all come ter onst.'

One by one the men and boys filed past him, and, selecting a hat or cap
from a couple of boxes near, he adjusted a covering to each woolly
cranium that presented itself; interspersing the exercise with humorous
remarks on their respective phrenological developments:

'Pomp, you's made fur a preacher, shore. Dat dar head ob your'n gwoes up
jess like a steeple. I'll hab ter gib you a cap, Dave; you'm so big
ahind de yeres none ob dese hats'll fit, nohow. Jess show de back ob
you' head to any gemman, an' he'll say you'm one ob de great ones ob de
'arth. None ob dese am big 'nuff fur you, Ally,' he continued, as a
tall, well-clad mulatto man stepped up to him. 'You' bumps hab growed so
sense you took to de swamp, dat nuffin'll cober you 'cept massa Robert's
hat, or de gal Rosey's sunshade.'

The yellow man laughed, but kept on trying the hats. Finding one at last
of suitable dimensions, he turned away to make room for another
candidate for cranial honors. As I caught a full view of his face, I
exclaimed:

'Why, Ally, is that you?'

'Yas, massa; it'm me,' he replied, making a respectful bow.

'And you live here yet?'

'Yas, massa. Hope you's well, massa?'

'Very well; and your mother--how is she?'

'Oh, she'm right smart, sar.'

'Yas, massa, I'se right smart; an' I'se bery glad ter see 'ou, massa,'
said a voice at my elbow. It was Dinah, no longer clad in coarse
osnaburg, but arrayed in a worsted gown, and a little grayer and a
little bulkier than when I saw her eight years before.

'Why, Dinah, how well you look!' I exclaimed, giving her my hand. 'And
you've come up to spend Christmas with Ally?'

'No, massa, I _libs_ yere. I'se FREE now, massa!'

'Free! So you've made enough to buy yourself? I'm glad to hear it.'

'No, massa. Ally--de good chile--he done it, massa.'

'Ally did it! How could he? He's not more than twenty now!'

'No more'n he hain't, massa; but he'm two yar in massa Preston's swamp,
wid a hired gang. Massa Preston put de chile ober 'em, an' gib him a
haff ob all he make, an' he'm doin' a heap dar, massa.'

'And with his first earnings he bought his mother