o-o-o'd----" Here he choked up and broke down, and clapping his
coon-skin cap on his head and pulling it down over his eyes, Burl turned
abruptly and walked hurriedly away. Ten minutes after, mounted on his
plow-horse, and with the big round tears playing at leap-frog down his
face, he was riding along the bridle-path through the woods on his way
to the corn-field, singing at the top of his huge, melodious voice:

"Squirly is a pretty bird."

And that morning the sylvan wilds were kept resounding with the
heart-easing, blithesome music which bespoke the thankfulness and the
gladness of the singer's heart. It was the happiest morning he had ever
known in all his life, and yet, despite an unaccountable accident of
birth that had brought into the world so noble a soul with an ebony hide
and fleecy head, the poor fellow had known a thousand mornings nearly as
happy. He was having his reward. But at about eleven o'clock the singing
suddenly ceased--so suddenly, indeed, that any one who might have been
listening would have said, "Assuredly something unusual has happened to
Burlman Reynolds; something has struck him--perhaps an Indian bullet."

But when, in answer to the dinner-horn, the plowman came riding slowly
home, it was evident from his unwonted seriousness of look and manner
that a thought had struck the mind, not a bullet the body of Burlman
Reynolds. It was further evident from the absent-minded way in which he
fed Cornwallis, throwing him two dozen instead of one dozen ears of
corn; and further still, from the absent-minded way in which he fed
himself, leaving his bacon untoasted and eating nothing but
bonny-clabber and corn-dodgers. Nor again that day was there an echo in
the woods to tell that Big Black Burl was at his cheerful labors in the
field. Yet, though the voice was silent, the heart went singing on, and
the burden of the tune it sung was, "Bery glad an' bery thankful." That
evening after supper, having smoked a sociable pipe with his Indian
guest in the twilight under his cabin-shed, Burl picked up his coon-skin
cap and, without putting it on, carried it in his hand with profound
respect to Miss Jemimy's door, where by early candle-light, she was
putting Bushie to bed. Showing one shoulder and his bushy head from
round the edge of the door-way, he looked in, and by way of breaking the
subject uppermost in his thoughts, cleared his throat and said, "Yes
'um."

"Well, Burl, what is it?" kindly inquire