hat never owned any slaves, hired negro help and
ill-treated them--old mistress felt so bad about this.

"I grew up with the white children in the family, but I was trained to
step aside at all times for white people. My grandmother's name was Affy
Calvert; she was a 'daily gift' to old Mistress; she was given to her
when they were both children and trained up in her service. Old Mistress
died long before her because she lived over a hundred years, and nursed
all the children and grandchildren. She brought me up more than my
mother; she and I never gave up the family."

Amos makes a strange statement: "Old Mausa, Mr. T.L. Bissell, (voice
lowered) was a =Yankee=, but he lived long before the War," with an
indulgent smile, and in a lower voice, with his hand up to his mouth he
continued as though communicating a dangerous confidence, "Oh, yes,
Ma'am--but he was a =Yankee=!" What Amos meant will remain a family
secret.

"I was trained by old Tony for yard boy before the War. I looked out
that no harm came to the older children, but one day they got away from
me," Amos chuckled, "they went to play on the logs in the lumber yard,
around what is now Halsey's Mill. The water was full of timber, open to
the river, (Ashley) and the tide was running out. One of the boys got on
a log, and two others on another log, and the little scamps paddled the
logs out, but when they found themselves in the tide they were scared,
and screamed at the top of their voices. I wasn't far off and heard
them. I was scared too. I jumped into the water and swam to get a
bateau; when they saw me they hushed. The tide had carried them some
distance before I caught up with them--was down near Chisolm's Rice
Mill. Mr. Chisolm saw it; he gave me a five dollar bill, Confederate
money, for saving the children."

Amos throws a new light on old history;--"Before the War come here it
was down in Beaufort, on the Port Royal Road; Confederates on one side,
Yankees on the other, and things happen here that belong to War. One
evening, early dusk, because it was winter, I was with two white boys on
the corner of Hasell street and East Bay. We stopped to watch a balloon
slowly floating in the sky. I never saw anything like it before--it
looked so pretty--and while we were looking a streak of fire came
straight down from the balloon to Russell's Planing Mill at the foot of
Hasell street,[1] right by us. In a short time the mill was on fire;
nothing could put it ou