grown man, with a beard, and a little boy of your own."

"Yas, suh," echoed the old servant, "an' till ole Peter's bones is
long sence crumble' inter dus'. None er de Frenches' ain' never died
till dey was done growed up."

On the afternoon following the colonel's visit to Mink Run, old Peter,
when he came for Phil, was obliged to stay long enough to see the
antics of the mechanical mule; and had not that artificial animal
suddenly refused to kick, and lapsed into a characteristic balkiness
for which there was no apparent remedy, it might have proved difficult
to get Phil away.

"There, Philip dear, never mind," said Miss Laura, "we'll have Ben
mend it for you when he comes, next time, and then you can play with
it again."

Peter had brought with him some hooks and lines, and, he and Phil,
after leaving the house, followed the bank of the creek, climbing a
fence now and then, until they reached the old mill site, upon which
work had not yet begun. They found a shady spot, and seating
themselves upon the bank, baited their lines, and dropped them into a
quiet pool. For quite a while their patience was unrewarded by
anything more than a nibble. By and by a black cat came down from the
ruined mill, and sat down upon the bank at a short distance from them.

"I reckon we'll haf ter move, honey," said the old man. "We ain't
gwine ter have no luck fishin' 'g'ins' no ole black cat."

"But cats don't fish, Uncle Peter, do they?"

"Law', chile, you'll never know w'at dem critters _kin_ do, 'tel you's
watched 'em long ez I has! Keep yo' eye on dat one now."

The cat stood by the stream, in a watchful attitude. Suddenly she
darted her paw into the shallow water and with a lightning-like
movement drew out a small fish, which she took in her mouth, and
retired with it a few yards up the bank.

"Jes' look at dat ole devil," said Peter, "playin' wid dat fish jes'
lack it wuz a mouse! She'll be comin' down heah terreckly tellin' us
ter go 'way fum her fishin' groun's."

"Why, Uncle Peter," said Phil incredulously, "cats can't talk!"

"Can't dey? Hoo said dey couldn'? Ain't Miss Grac'ella an' me be'n
tellin' you right along 'bout Bre'r Rabbit and Bre'r Fox an de yuther
creturs talkin' an' gwine on jes' lak folks?"

"Yes, Uncle Peter, but those were just stories; they didn't really
talk, did they?"

"Law', honey," said the old man, with a sly twinkle in his rheumy eye,
"you is de sma'tes' little white boy I ever knowed, bu