'I will speak to the Signore Enrico, and have him employ him again,' said Rocjean.
'Oh! I wish you would, for the Signore Enrico was very good to Beppo; besides, his studio is a perfect palace for cigar-stumps, which Beppo used to pick up and sell—that is, all those he and father didn't smoke in their pipes.'
'Make a sketch, Caper,' said Rocjean, 'of Cupid filling up his quiver with cigar-stumps, while he holds one between his teeth. There's a model love for you! Now, give Rita those two pauls you promised her, and let her go. Adio!'
GIULIA DI SEGNI
(Lines found written on the back of a sketch in Caper's portfolio.)
By Roman watch-tower, on the mountaintop,
We stood, at sunset, gazing like the eagles
From their cloud-eyrie, o'er the broad Campagna,
To the Albanian hills, which boldly rose,
Bathed in a flood of red and pearly light.
Far off, and fading in the coming night,
Lay the Abruzzi, where the pale, white walls
Of towns gleamed faintly on their purple sides.
The evening air was tremulous with sounds:
The thrilling chirp of insects, twittering birds,
Barking of shepherds' fierce, white, Roman dogs;
While from the narrow path, far down below,
We heard a mournful rondinella ring,
Sung by a home-returning mountaineer.
Then, as the daylight slowly climbed the hills,
And the soft wind breathed music to their steps,
O'er the old Roman watch-tower marched the stars,
In their bright legions—conquerors of night—
Shedding from silver armor shining light;
As once the Roman legions, ages past,
Marched on to conquest o'er the Latin way,
Gleaming, white-stoned, so far beneath our gaze.
Giula di Segni, 'mid the Volscians born,
Streamed in thy veins that fiery, Roman blood,
Curled thy proud lip, and fired thy eagle eyes.
Faultless in beauty, as the noble forms
Painted on rare Etrurian vase of old;
How life, ennobled by thy love, swept on,
Serene, above the mean and pitiful!
Stars! that still sparkle o'er old Segni's walls,
Oh! mirror back to me one glance from eyes
That yet may watch you from that Roman tower.
MR. BROWN BUYS A PAINTING
Caper's uncle, from St. Louis, Mr. William Browne, one day astonished several artists who were dining with him:
'My young men,' said he, 'there is one thing pleases me very much about you all, and that is, you never mention the word Art; don't seem to care any thing more about the old masters than I would about a lot of old worn-out broom-sticks; and if I didn't know I was with artists in Rome, the crib—no, what d' ye call it?'
'The manger?' suggested Rocjean.
'Yes,' continued Uncle Bill, 'the manger of art, I should think I was among a lot of smart merchants, who had gone into the painting business determined to do a right good trade.'
'Cash on delivery,' added Caper.
'Yes, be sure of that. Well, I like it; I feel at home with you; and as I always make it a point to encourage young business men, I am going to do my duty by one of you, at any rate. I shan't show favor to my nephew, Jim, any more than I do to the rest. And this is my plan: I want a painting five feet by two, to fill up a place in my house in St. Louis; it's an odd shape, and that is so much in my favor, because you haven't any of you a painting that size under way, and can all start even. I'll leave the subject to each one of you, and I'll pay five hundred dollars to the man who paints the best picture, who has his done within seven days, and puts the most work on it! Do you all understand?'
They replied affirmatively.
'But what the thunder,' asked Caper, 'are those of us who don't win the prize, going to do with paintings of such a size, left on our hands? Nobody, unless a steamboat captain, who wants to ornament his berths, just that size, and relieve the tedium of his passengers, would ever think of buying them.'
'Well,' replied Uncle Bill, 'I don't want smart young men like you all, to lose your time and money, so I'll buy the balance of the paintings for what the canvas and paints cost, and give two dollars a day for the seven days employed on each painting. Isn't that liberal?'
'Like Cosmo de Medici,' answered Rocjean; 'and I agree to the terms in every particular, especially as to putting the most work on it! There are four competitors—put down their names. Légume, you will come in, won't you?'
'Certainly I will, by Jing!' answered the French artist, who prided himself on his knowledge of English, especially the interjections.
'Then,' continued Rocjean, 'Caper, Bagswell, Légume, and I, will try for your five hundred dollar prize. When shall we commence?'
'To-day is Tuesday,' replied Uncle Bill; 'say next Monday—that will give you plenty of time to get your frames and canvases. So that ends all particulars. There are two friends of mine here from the United States, one, Mr. Van Brick, of New York, and the other, Mr. Pinchfip, of Philadelphia, whom I think you all met here last week.'
'The thin gentleman with hair very much brushed, be Gad?' asked Légume.
'I don't remember as to his hair,' answered Uncle Bill, 'but that's the man. Well, these two I know will act as vampires, and I am sure you will be pleased with their verdict. Monday after next, therefore, we will all call, so be ready.'
The four artists took the whole thing as a joke, but determined to paint the pictures; and at Caper's suggestion, each one agreed, as there was a play of words in the clause, 'most work on it,' to puzzle Uncle Bill, and have the laugh on him.
On the day appointed to decide the prize, Uncle Bill, accompanied by Messrs. Van Brick and Pinchfip, called first at Légume's studio; they found him in the Via Margutta, (in English, Malicious street,) in a light, airy room, furnished with a striking attention to effect. On his easel was a painting of the required size, representing Louis XV. at Versailles, surrounded by his lady friends. By making the figures of the ladies small, and crowding them, Légume managed to get a hundred or two on the canvas. A period in their history to which Frenchmen refer with so much pleasure, and with which they are so conversant, was treated by the artist with professional zeal. The merits of the painting were carefully canvassed by the two judges. Mr. Pinchfip found it exceedingly graceful, neat, and pretty. Mr. Van Brick admired the females, remarking that he should like to be in old Louis's place. To which Légume bowed, asserting that he was sure he was in every way qualified to fill it. Mr. Van Brick determined in his mind to give the artist a dinner, at Spillman's, for that speech.
Mr. Pinchfip took notes in a book; Mr. Van Brick asked for a light to a cigar. The former congratulated the artist; the latter at once asked him to come and dine with him. Mr. Pinchfip wished to know if he was related to the Count Légume whom he had met at Paris. Mr. Van Brick told him he would bring his friend Livingston round to buy a painting. Mr. Pinchfip said that it would afford him pleasure to call again. Mr. Van Brick gave the artist his card, and shook hands with him:…and the judges were passing out, when Légume asked them to take one final look at the painting to see if it had not the most work on it. Mr. Van Brick instantly turned toward it, and running over it with his eye, burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
'If the others beat that, I am mistaken,' said he. 'Look at there!' calling the attention of Uncle Bill and Mr. Pinchfip to a fold of a curtain on which was painted, in small letters,
'MOST WORK.'
'I say, Browne,' continued Mr. Van Brick, 'he is too many for you; and if the one who puts 'most work' on his painting is to win the five hundred dollars, Légume's chance is good.'
'Very ingenious,' said Mr. Pinchfip, 'very; it is a legitimate play upon words. But legally, I can not affirm that I am aware of any precedent for awarding Mr. Browne's money to Monsieur Légume on this score.'
'We will have to make a precedent, then,' spoke Van Brick, 'and do it illegally, if we find that he deserves the money. But time flies, and we have the other artists to visit.'
They next went to Bagswell's studio, in the Viccolo dei Greci, and found him in a large room, well furnished, and having a solidly comfortable look; the walls ornamented with paintings, sketches, costumes, armor; while in a good light under its one large window, was his painting. They found he had left his beaten track of historical subjects, and in the genre school had an interior of an Italian country inn—a kitchen-scene. It represented a stout, handsome country girl, in Ciociara costume, kneading a large trough of dough, while another girl was filling pans with that which was already kneaded, and two or three other females were carrying them to an oven, tended by a man who was piling brush-wood on the fire. The painting was very life-like, and for the short time employed on it, well finished. It wanted the fire and dash of Légume's painting, but its truthfulness to life evidently made a deep impression on Uncle Bill. Stuck on with a sketching-tack to one corner was a piece of paper, on which was marked the number of hours employed each day on the work; it summed up fifty-four hours, or an average each day of nearly eight hours' work on it.
Mr. Pinchfip's note-book was again called into play. Mr. Van Brick had another cigar to smoke, remarking that the artist had triple work in his picture—head, bread, and prize-work: his picture representing working in, over, and for bread!
They next went to see Rocjean, in the Corso; they found him in a bournouse, with a fez on his head, a long chibouk in his mouth, smoking away, extended at full length on a settee, which he insisted was a divan. There was a glass bottle holding half a gallon of red wine on a table near him, also a bottle of Marsala, and half a dozen glasses. There was a roaring wood-fire in his stove—for it was December, and the day was overcast and cool.
'This is the most out and out comfortable old nest I've seen in Rome,' said Mr. Van Brick, as they entered; 'and as for curiosities and plunder, you beat Barnum. Will I take a glass of wine? I am there!'
Rocjean filled up glasses. Mr. Pinchfip declining, as he never drank before dinner, neither did he smoke before dinner. He told them that the late Doctor Phyzgig, who had always been their (the Pinchfips') family physician, had absolutely forbidden it.
No one made any remark to this, unless Mr. Van Brick's expressive face could be translated as observing, in a quiet manner, that the late Doctor was possibly dyspeptic, and probably nervous.
Rocjean's painting represented a view of the Claudian aqueduct, mountains in the distance; bold foreground, shepherd with flocks, a wayside shrine, peasants kneeling in front of it. Over all, bold cloud effects. A very ponderous volume balanced on top of the picture, and leaning against the easel, invited Uncle Bill's attention, and he asked Rocjean why he had put it there? The artist answered that it was a folio copy of Josephus, his works, and, as he was anxious to comply with the terms of Mr. Browne, he had placed it there in order to put the most work on it.
Mr. Pinchfip having asked Rocjean why, in placing that book there, he was like a passenger paying his fare to the driver of an omnibus?
The latter at once answered:
'I give it up.'
'So you do,' replied Pinchfip. 'You are quick, sir, at answering conundrums.'
Mr. Brick saw it. Finally Uncle Bill was made to comprehend.
'Very excellent, sir; very ingenious! Philadelphians may well be proud of the high position they have as punsters, utterers of bon mots and conundrums,' said Rocjean; 'I have had the comfort of living in your city, and thoroughly appreciating your—markets.'
After Rocjean's the judges and Uncle Bill went to Caper's studio. As they entered his room they found that ingenious youth walking, in his shirt-sleeves, in as large a circle as the room would permit, bearing on his head a large canvas, while a quite pretty female model, named Stella, sat on a sofa, marking down something on a piece of paper, using the sole of her shoe for a writing-desk.
'We-ell!' said Uncle Bill.
'One more round,' quoth Caper, with unmoved countenance, 'and I will be with you. That will make four hundred and fifty, won't it, Stella?'
'Eh, Gia, one more is all you want.' And making an extra scratch with a pencil, the female model surveyed the new-comers with a triumphant air, plainly saying: 'See there! I can write, but I am not proud.'
'What are you about, Jim?'
'Look at that painting!' answered Caper. 'The Blessing of the Donkeys, Horses, etc.; it is one of the most imposing ceremonies of the Church. As my specialty is animal, I have chosen it for my painting; and not contented with laboring faithfully on it, I have determined, in order to put the thing beyond a doubt as to my gaining the prize, to put the most work on it of any of my rivals; so I have actually, as Stella will tell you, carried it bodily four hundred and fifty times round this studio.'
'Instead of a painting, I should think you would have made a panting of it,' spoke Mr. Van Brick.
'The idea seems to me artful,' added Mr. Pinchfip, 'but after all, this pedestrian work was not on the painting, but under it; therefore, according to Blackstone on contracts, this comes under the head of a consideration do, ut facias, see vol. ii. page 360. How far moral obligation is a legal consideration, see note, vol. iii. p. 249 Bossanquet and Puller's Reports. The principle servus facit, ut herus det, as laid down by....'
'Jove!' exclaimed Uncle Bill, 'couldn't you stop off the torrent for one minute? I'm drowning—I give up—do with me as you see fit.'
'And now,' said Mr. Van Brick, 'that we have seen the four paintings, let us, Mr. Pinchfip, proceed calmly to discover who has won the five hundred dollars. Duly, deliberately, and gravely, let us put the four names on four slips of paper, stir them up in a hat. Mr. Browne shall then draw out a name, the owner of that name shall be the winner.'
It was drawn, and by good fortune for him, Bagswell won the five hundred dollars. Thus Uncle Bill Browne bought one painting for a good round sum, and three others at the stipulated price. Which one of the four had the most work on it, is, however, an unsettled question among three of the artists, to this day.
FOR THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH
Victory comes with a palm in her hand,
With laurel upon her brow;
Cypress is clinging about her feet,
But its dark blossoms are red and sweet,
And the weeping mourners bow.
It is well. Through her tears, the widow smiles
To the child upon her knee;
'Thou'rt fatherless, darling; but he fell
Gallantly fighting, and long and well,
For the banner of the free!'
Then, weeping: 'Alas! for my lost, lost love;
Alas! for my own weak heart;
I know, when the storm shall pass away,
My boy, in manhood, would blush to say:
'My blood had therein no part."
The maiden her lover weeps, unconsoled,
So desolate is her gloom;
But a voice falls softly through the air,
Whispering comfort to her despair,
'Love here hath fadeless bloom.'
The father laments for his boy, who fell
By Cumberland's river-side;
The sister, her brother loved the best,
Whose blood, in the dark and troubled West,
The father of waters dyed.
The mother—oh! silence your Spartan tales—
Says bravely, hushing a moan:
'I have yet one left. My boy! go on;
Rear freedom's banner high in the sun!'
Then sits in the house alone.
To die for one's country is sweet, indeed!
To fight for the right is brave;
But there are brave hearts who vainly wait
Till triumph shall find them desolate,
Their hopes in a far-off grave.
O mourners! be patient; the end shall come;
The beautiful years of peace.
Remember! though hearts rebel the while
You hide your tears with a mournful smile,
That tyranny soon shall cease.
For victory comes, a palm in her hand,
Fresh garlands about her brow;
But the cypress trailing under her feet,
With crimson blossoms, by tears made sweet,
Shall wreathe with the laurel now.
IN TRANSITU
When the acid meets the alkali,
How they sputter, snap, and fly!
Such a crackling, such a pattering!
Such a hissing, such a spattering!
All in foaming discord tossed,
One would swear that all is lost.
Yet the equivalents soon blend,
All comes right at last i' the end.
Country mine!—'tis so with thee.
Wait—and all will quiet be!
Men, while working out a mission,
Must not fear the fierce transition.
AMONG THE PINES
I sauntered out, after the events recorded in the last paper, to inhale the fresh air of the morning. A slight rain had fallen during the night, and it still moistened the dead leaves which carpeted the woods, making an extended walk out of the question; so, seating myself on the trunk of a fallen tree, in the vicinity of the house, I awaited the hour for breakfast. I had not remained there long before I heard the voices of my host and Madam P– on the front piazza:
'I tell you, Alice, I can not—must not do it. If I overlook this, the discipline of the plantation is at an end.'
'Do what you please with him when you return,' replied the lady, 'but do not chain him up, and leave me, at such a time, alone. You know Jim is the only one I can depend on.'
'Well, have your own way. You know, my darling, I would not cause you a moment's uneasiness, but I must follow up this d–d Moye.'
I was seated where I could hear, though I could not see the speakers, but it was evident from the tone of the last remark, that an action accompanied it quite as tender as the words. Being unwilling to overhear more of a private conversation, I rose and approached them.
'Ah! my dear fellow,' said the Colonel, on perceiving me, 'are you stirring so early? I was about to send to your room to ask if you'll go with me up the country. My d–d overseer has got away, and I must follow him at once.'
'I'll go with pleasure,' I replied. 'Which way do you think Moye has gone?'
'The shortest cut to the railroad, probably; but old Cæsar will track him.'
A servant then announced breakfast—an early one having been prepared. We hurried through the meal with all speed, and the other preparations being soon over, were in twenty minutes in our saddles, and ready for the journey. The mulatto coachman, with a third horse, was at the door, ready to accompany us, and as we mounted, the Colonel said to him:
'Go and call Sam, the driver.'
The darky soon returned with the heavy, ugly-visaged black who had been whipped, by Madam P–'s order, the day before.
'Sam,' said his master, 'I shall be gone some days, and I leave the field-work in your hands. Let me have a good account of you when I return.'
'Yas, massa, you shill dat,' replied the negro.
'Put Jule—Sam's Jule—into the field, and see that she does full tasks,' continued the Colonel.
'Hain't she wanted 'mong de nusses, massa?'
'Put some one else there—give her field-work; she needs it.'
I will here explain that on large plantations the young children of the field-women are left with them only at night, being herded together during the day in a separate cabin, in charge of nurses. These nurses are feeble, sickly women, or recent mothers; and the fact of Jule's being employed in that capacity was evidence that she was unfit for out-door labor.
Madam P–, who was waiting on the piazza to see us off, seemed about to remonstrate against this arrangement, but she hesitated a moment, and in that moment we had bidden her 'Good-by,' and galloped away.
We were soon at the cabin of the negro-hunter, and the coachman dismounting, called him out.
'Hurry up, hurry up,' said the Colonel, as Sandy appeared, 'we haven't a moment to spare.'
'Jest so, jest so, Cunnel; I'll jine ye in a jiffin,' replied he of the reddish extremities.
Emerging from the shanty with provoking deliberation—the impatience of my host had infected me—the clay-eater slowly proceeded to mount the horse of the negro, his dirt-bedraggled wife, and clay-incrusted children, following close at his heels, and the younger ones huddling around for the tokens of paternal affection usual at parting. Whether it was the noise they made, or their frightful aspect, I know not, but the horse, a spirited animal, took fright on their appearance, and nearly broke away from the negro, who was holding him. Seeing this, the Colonel said:
'Clear out, you young scarecrows. Into the house with you.'
'They hain't no more scarecrows than yourn, Cunnel J–,' said the mother, in a decidedly belligerent tone. 'You may 'buse my old man—he kin stand it—but ye shan't blackguard my young 'uns!'
The Colonel laughed, and was about to make a good-natured reply, when Sandy yelled out:
'Gwo enter the house and shet up, ye – –.'
With this affectionate farewell, he turned his horse and led the way up the road.
The dog, who was a short distance in advance, soon gave a piercing howl, and started off at the speed of a reindeer. He had struck the trail, and urging our horses to their fastest speed, we followed.
We were all well mounted, but the mare the Colonel had given me was a magnificent animal, as fleet as the wind, and with a gait so easy that her back seemed a rocking-chair. Saddle-horses at the South are trained to the gallop—Southern riders deeming it unnecessary that one's breakfast should be churned into a Dutch cheese by a trotting nag, in order that one may pass for a good horseman.
We had ridden on at a perfect break-neck pace for half an hour, when the Colonel shouted to our companion:
'Sandy, call the dog in; the horses won't last ten miles at this gait—we've a long ride before us.'
The dirt-eater did as he was bidden, and we soon settled into a gentle gallop.
We had passed through a dense forest of pines, but were emerging into a 'bottom country,' where some of the finest deciduous trees, then brown and leafless, but bearing promise of the opening beauty of spring, reared, along with the unfading evergreen, their tall stems in the air. The live-oak, the sycamore, the Spanish mulberry, the mimosa, and the persimmon, gayly festooned with wreaths of the white and yellow jessamine, the woodbine and the cypress-moss, and bearing here and there a bouquet of the mistletoe, with its deep green and glossy leaves upturned to the sun—flung their broad arms over the road, forming an archway grander and more beautiful than any the hand of man ever wove for the greatest heroes the world has worshiped.
The woods were free from underbrush, but a coarse, wiry grass, unfit for fodder, and scattered through them in detached patches, was the only vegetation visible. The ground was mainly covered with the leaves and burs of the pine.
We passed great numbers of swine, feeding on these burs, and now and then a horned animal browsing on the cypress-moss where it hung low on the trees. I observed that nearly all the swine were marked, though they seemed too wild to have ever seen an owner, or a human habitation. They were a long, lean, slab-sided race, with legs and shoulders like a deer, and bearing no sort of resemblance to the ordinary hog except in the snout, and that feature was so much longer and sharper than the nose of the Northern swine, that I doubt if Agassiz would class the two as one species. However, they have their uses—they make excellent bacon, and are 'death on snakes;' Ireland itself is not more free from the serpentine race than are the districts frequented by these long-nosed quadrupeds.
'We call them Carolina race-horses,' said the Colonel, as he finished an account of their peculiarities.
'Race-horses! Why, are they fleet of foot?'
'Fleet as deer. I'd match one against an ordinary horse at any time.'
'Come, my friend, you're practicing on my ignorance of natural history.'
'Not a bit of it. See! there's a good specimen yonder. If we can get him into the road, and fairly started, I'll bet you a dollar he'll beat Sandy's mare on a half-mile stretch—Sandy to hold the stakes and have the winnings.'
'Well, agreed,' I said, laughing, 'and I'll give the pig ten rods the start.'
'No,' replied the Colonel, 'you can't afford it. He'll have to start ahead, but you'll need that in the count. Come, Sandy, will you go in for the pile?'
I'm not sure that the native would not have run a race with Old Nicholas himself, for the sake of so much money. To him it was a vast sum; and as he thought of it, his eyes struck small sparks, and his enormous beard and mustachio vibrated with something that faintly resembled a laugh. Replying to the question, he said:
'Kinder reckon I wull, Cunnel; howsomdever, I keeps the stakes, anyhow?'
'Of course,' said the planter, 'but be honest—win if you can.'
Sandy halted his horse in the road, while the planter and I took to the woods on either side of the way. The Colonel soon maneuvered to separate the selected animal from the rest of the herd, and, without much difficulty, got him into the road, where, by closing down on each flank, we kept him till he and Sandy were fairly under way.
'He'll keep to the road when once started,' said the Colonel, laughing, 'and he'll show you some of the tallest running you ever saw in your life.'
Away they went. At first the pig seemed not exactly to comprehend the programme, for he cantered off at a leisurely pace, though he held his own. Soon, however, he cast an eye behind him—halted a moment to collect his thoughts and reconnoiter—and then, lowering his head and elevating his tail, put forth all his speed. And such speed! Talk of a deer, the wind, or a steam-engine—their gait is not to be compared with it. Nothing in nature I have ever seen run—except, it may be, a Southern tornado, or a Sixth Ward politician—could hope to distance that pig. He gained on the horse at every pace, and I soon saw that my dollar was gone!
'In for a shilling in for a pound,' is the adage, so turning to the Colonel, I said, as intelligibly as my horse's rapid steps, and my own excited risibilities would allow:
'I see I've lost, but I'll go you another dollar that you can't beat the pig!'
'No—sir!' the Colonel got out in the breaks of his laughing explosions; 'you can't hedge on me in that manner. I'll go a dollar that you can't do it, and your mare is the fastest on the road. She won me a thousand not a month ago.'
'Well, I'll do it; Sandy to have the stakes.'
'Agreed,' said the Colonel, and away we went.
The swinish racer was about a hundred yards ahead when I gave the mare the reins, and told her to go. And she did go. She flew against the wind with a motion so rapid that my face, as it clove the air, felt as if cutting its way through a solid body, and the trees, as we passed, seemed taken with a panic, and running for dear life in the opposite direction.
For a few moments I thought the mare was gaining, and I turned to the Colonel with an exultant look.
'Don't shout till you win, my boy,' he called out from the distance where I was fast leaving him and Sandy.
I did not shout, for spite of all my efforts the space between me and the pig seemed to widen. Yet I kept on, determined to win, till, at the end of a short half-mile, we reached the Waccamaw—the swine still a hundred yards ahead! There his pig-ship halted, turned coolly around, eyed me for a moment, then quietly and deliberately trotted off into the woods.
A bend in the road kept my companions out of sight for a few moments, and when they came up I had somewhat recovered my breath, though the mare was blowing hard, and reeking with foam.
'Well,' said the Colonel, 'what do you think of our bacon 'as it runs'?'
'I think the Southern article can't be beat, whether raw or cooked, standing or running.'
At this moment the hound, who had been leisurely jogging along in the rear, disdaining to join in the race in which his dog of a master and I had engaged, came up, and dashing quickly on to the river's edge, set up a most dismal howling. The Colonel dismounted, and clambering down the bank, which was there twenty feet high, and very steep, shouted out:
'The d—d Yankee has swum the stream!'
'Why so?' Tasked.
'To cover his tracks and delay pursuit; but he has overshot the mark. There is no other road within ten miles, and he must have taken to this one again beyond here. He's lost twenty minutes by that maneuver. Come, Sandy, call on the dog, we'll push on a little faster.'
'But he tuk to t'other bank, Cunnel. Shan't we trail him thar?' asked Sandy.
'And suppose he found a boat here,' I suggested, 'and made the shore some ways down?'
'He couldn't get Firefly into a boat—we should only waste time in scouring the other bank. The swamp this side the next run has forced him into the road within five miles. The trick is transparent. He took me for a fool,' replied the Colonel, answering both questions at once.
I had reined my horse out of the road, and when my companions turned to go, was standing at the edge of the bank, overlooking the river. Suddenly I saw, on one of the abutments of the bridge, what seemed a long, black log—strange to say, in motion!
'Colonel,' I shouted, 'see there! a living log, as I'm a white man!'
'Lord bless you,' cried the planter, taking an observation, 'it's an alligator!'
I said no more, but pressing on after the hound, soon left my companions out of sight. For long afterward, the Colonel, in a doleful way, would allude to my lamentable deficiency in natural history—particularly in such branches as bacon and 'living logs.'
I had ridden about five miles, keeping well up with the hound, and had reached the edge of the swamp, when suddenly the dog darted to the side of the road, and began to yelp in the most frantic manner. Dismounting, and leading my horse to the spot, I made out plainly the print of Firefly's feet in the sand. There was no mistaking it—that round shoe on the off fore-foot. (The horse had, when a colt, a cracked hoof, and though the wound was outgrown, the foot was still tender.) These prints were dry, while the tracks we had seen at the river were filled with water, thus proving that the rain ceased while the overseer was passing between the two places. He was then not far off.
The Colonel and Sandy soon rode up.
'Caught a living log! eh, my good fellow?' asked my host, with a laugh.