s, that unlettered woman had said what would--if men
were but wise enough to hear and heed the great truth which she
spoke--banish slavery from this continent forever!

After a while, the farmer told the juvenile delineator of Mrs. Hemans
and the other poets to give us a song; and planting himself in the
middle of the floor, the little darky sang 'Dixie' and several other
negro songs, which his master had taught him, but into which he had
introduced some amusing variations of his own. The other children joined
in the choruses; and then Jim danced breakdowns, 'walk-along-Joes,' and
other darky dances, his master accompanying him on a cracked fiddle,
till my sides were sore with laughter, and the hostess begged them to
stop. Finally the clock struck twelve, and the farmer, going to the
door, gave a long, loud blast on a cow's horn. In about five minutes,
one after another of the field hands came in, till the whole ten had
seated themselves on the verandah. Each carried a bowl, a tin-cup, or a
gourd, into which my host--who soon emerged from a back room[1] with a
pail of whisky in his hand--poured a gill of the beverage. This was the
day's allowance, and the farmer, in answer to a question of mine, told
me he thought negroes were healthier and worked better for a small
quantity of alcohol daily. 'The' work hard, and salt feed doan't set 'em
up 'nough,' was his remark.

Meanwhile the hostess busied herself with preparations for dinner, and
it was soon spread on a bright cherry table, covered by a spotless white
cloth. The little darkies had scattered to the several cabins, and we
soon sat down to as good a meal as I ever ate at the South.

We were waited on by a tidy negro woman, neatly clad in a calico gown,
with shoes on her feet, and a flaming red and yellow kerchief on her
head. This last was worn in the form of a turban, and one end escaping
from behind and hanging down her back, it looked for all the world like
a flag hung out from a top turret. Observing it, my host said:

'Aggy--showin' yer colors? Ye'r Union gal--hey?'

'Yas, I is dat, massa; Union ter de back-bone,' responded the negress,
grinning widely.

'All th' Union _ye_ knows on,' replied the master, winking slyly at me,
'is th' union yer goin' ter hitch up 'long with black Cale over ter
Squire Taylor's.'

'No, 'tan't, massa; takes more'n tu ter make de Union.'

'Yas, I knows; it gin'rally takes ten or a dozen: reckon it'll take a
dozen with ye.'