door and departed, along with nurse, over
whose toilet her little charges have presided with so much zeal that
they have emptied their mother's cologne flask in order to bedew their
mammy's pocket-handkerchief to their satisfaction.

Tiny curly-headed Jack feels rather disconsolate without his mammy,
but is partially consoled by flattering visions of what her pockets
will bring home at the end of the day.[1]

Away down upon the creek the little gristmill stands silent; the old
mossy wheel has for to-day ceased its splash and clatter, and, like
all else upon the plantation, is resting from its labor; to-day no
sacks stand open-mouthed, awaiting their turn; no little creaking
carts, no mill boys mounted astride their grists are seen upon the
path, and Wat, the miller, in the lazy content of dirt and idleness,
lies basking in the sun. Within the wattle fence on the other side of
the path, his three children, little Dave, Emma Jane, and a fat baby,
are sprawling upon the ground, along with the house pig, two puppies,
and the chickens. Little Dave, who is perhaps somewhat dwarfed by
toting first Emma Jane in her infancy, and now the fat baby, looks not
unlike a careworn little ape, as he sits flat upon the ground,
spreading his bony toes for the baby to claw at.

Emma Jane, with her stout little body buttoned into a homespun frock,
is also seated in the sand, solemnly munching upon a hunk of corn
bread, while the chickens, with easy familiarity, peck at the crumbs
which fall upon her black shins. Within the cabin, Polly, the miller's
wife, has tied a string of beads about her sleek black throat, and
now, in all the bravery of her flowered calico, is ready to set off
for the quarter; first, though, she pauses at the gate to speak to
little Dave.

"When de chile git hongry, you git dat sweeten water off de shelf and
gie it to him long wid his bread;" then adds, with a suspicion of
tenderness upon her comely face; "I gwine fetch you some pie." Then,
calling to Wat, that he had better "fix his sef and come along, ef he
speck to git any of de dinner," she steps briskly along the narrow
pathway, mounts the zigzag fence, and disappears amid the high corn.

Some miles below, where the little creek which turns the mill-wheel
steals from out the swamp to join the river, a clumsy, flat-bottomed
scow lies grounded upon a sand-bar. This is no evil to Boat Jim, who,
sprawled upon the deck, snores away the hours, regardless of the
bl