ose eyes and perfect teeth could be seen
beaming upon us through the dusky shades of the forest.

On the evening of the day when news arrived of the first election of
Grover Cleveland to the Presidency, we were sitting as usual on our
piazza, when, suddenly, I saw a flash of fire in the woods, followed
by the report of a rifle, then others in quick succession. Rushing to
the scene I found a few Southern whites armed with repeating rifles,
facing a large band of negroes carrying a motley array of pitchforks,
scythes, razors, clubs, and a few ancient shotguns. Yelling: "Hold
up!" I sprang between the embattled hosts, and demanded to know what
was the row.

"Get out of the way, you damned Yankee," shrieked the crackers, "or
we'll riddle you with bullets." Then they gave the far-reaching,
fiendish, rebel yell.

"Shoot," I replied, "if you want to be hung."

--"Boys," I said, turning to the darkies, "what's the matter?"

"Oh, boss, massa Linkum's dead, de Dimikrat am Presidunt, und we poo'
niggers be slabes agin. We fight, we die, but we won't be slabes agin,
neber."

Again came the roar of rifles behind me and the minnie balls went
shrieking over our heads. "Boys," I shouted, "you are mistaken. A
million Northern soldiers will march down here if necessary to prevent
that; go at once to your homes; I will take care of you." Slowly the
colored men, who trusted me implicitly, melted away in the darkness.
Again the rebel yell, again the rifle shots high in the air.
"Gentlemen," said I, to the menacing whites, "come with me to the
Hall, I want to talk with you."

"To hell with you!" they yelled, but followed me into the building.

When they had sullenly taken seats, with guns threateningly at the
ready, they glared at me like tigers ready to spring. Soon a man, I
had, on my way, sent to the store, arrived with a box of good Florida
cigars, and I quietly passed them around to my "lions couchant,"
took a seat on the platform facing them, lit up, and commenced the
enjoyment of a silent smoke, they following suit.

The tender of a cigar in the South is a recognition of comradeship
which is a most potent mollifier. At last they brought their guns
to the ground arms, parade rest, and the leader, an ex-Confederate
officer, drawled out, "Wall, Yank, what do you want of we uns?"

"Just as you please, gentlemen, peace or war?"

"We are smoking the pipe, or cigar, of peace, Yank."

"So mote it be, brothers," said I, knowing