'Wal, he arn't, an' I knows it. Th' d–d parsons an' pol'tishuns say thet, but 'tan't so. I kin do half agin more work in a day then th' best nig I've got, an' I've dun it, tu, time an' agin, an' it didn't hurt me nuther. Ye knows ef a man hev a wife and young 'uns 'pendin' on him, an' arn't much 'forehanded, he'll work like th' devil. I've dun it, an' ye hev ef ye war ever put ter it; but th' nigs, why, the' han't got no wives and young 'uns ter work fur—the law doan't 'low 'em ter have any—the' han't nary a thing but thar carcasses, an' them's thar masters'.'

'You say a man works better for being free; then you must think 'twould be well to free the negroes.'

'In coorse, I does. Jest luk at them nigs o' mine; they're ter all 'tents an' purposes free, 'case I use 'em like men, an' the' knows the' kin go whenever the' d–d please. See how the' work—why, one on 'em does half as much agin as ony hard-driv' nigger in creation.'

'What would you do with them, if they were really free?'

'Du with 'em? why, hire 'em, an' make twice as much eout on 'em as I does now.'

'But I don't think the two races were meant to live together.'

'No more'n the' warn't. But 'tan't thar fault thet they's har. We han't no right to send 'em off. We orter stand by our'n an' our faders' doin's. The nig keers more fur his hum, so durned pore as it ar', then ye or I does fur our'n. I'd pack sech off ter Libraria or th' devil, as wanted ter go, but I'd hev no 'pulsion 'bout it.'

'Why, my good friend, you're half-brother to Garrison. You don't talk to your neighbors in this way?'

'Wal, I doan't;' he replied, laughing. 'Ef I dun it, they'd treat me to a coat uv tar, and ride me out uv th' deestrict raather sudden, I reckon; but yer a Nuthener, an' the' all take nat'rally ter freedum, excep' th' d–d doughfaces, an' ye aren't one on 'em, I'll swar.'

'Well, I'm not. Do many of your neighbors think as you do?'

'Reckon not many round har; but up in Cart'ret, whar I cum from, heaps on 'em do, though the' darn't say so.'

By this time we had reached the still, and directing his attention to the enormous quantity of rosin that had been run into the pit which I have spoken of, I asked him why he threw so much valuable material away.

'Wal, 'tan't wuth nothin' har. Thet's th' common, an' it won't bring in York, now, more'n a dollar forty-five. It costs a dollar an' two bits ter get it thar an' pay fur sellin on it, an' th' barr'l's wuth the difference. I doan't ship nuthin wuss no No. 2.'

'What is No. 2?'

He took the head from one of the barrels, and with an adze cut out a small piece, then handing me the specimen, replied:

'Now hole thet up ter th' sun. Ye'll see though it's yaller, its clean and clar. Thet's good No. 2, what brings now two dollars an' two bits in New-York, an' pays me 'bout a dollar a barr'l; it's got eout o' second yar dip, an' as it comes eout uv th' still, is run through thet ar strainer,' pointing to a coarse wire-sieve that lay near. 'Th' common rosum, thet th' still's runnin' on now, is made eout on th' yaller dip—thet's th' kine o' turpentine thet runs from th' tree arter two yar's tappin'—we call it yallar dip 'case it's allers dark. We doan't strain common 'tall, an' it's full uv chips and dirt. It's low now, but ef it shud ever git up, I'd tap thet ar' heap, barr'l it up, run a little fresh-stilled inter it, an' 'twould be a'most so good as new.'

'Then it is injured by being in the ground.'

'Not much; it's jest as good fur ev'ry thing but makin' ile, puttin' it in the 'arth sort o' takes th' sap eout on it, an' th' sap's th' ile. Natur' sucks thet eout, I s'pose, ter make th' trees grow—I expec' my bones 'ill fodder 'em one on these days.'

'Rosin is put to very many uses.'

'Yes, but common's used mainly for ile and soap; th' Yankees put it inter hard yaller soap, 'case it makes it weigh, an' yer folks is up ter them doin's, and he looked at me and gave a sly laugh. I could not deny the 'hard' impeachment, and said nothing. Taking a specimen of very clear light-colored rosin from a shelf in the still-house, I asked him what that quality was worth.

'Thet ar brought seven dollars for two hundred an' eighty pounds in York, airly this yar. It's th' very best No. 1; an' it's hard ter make, 'case ef th' still gets overhet it turns it a tinge. Thet sort is run through two sieves, the coarse 'un, an' thet ar,' pointing to another wire strainer, the meshes of which were as fine as those of the flour-sieve used by housewives.

'Do your seven field-hands produce enough 'dip' to keep your still a running?'

'No, I buys th' rest uv my naboors who han't no stills; an' th' Cunnel's down on me 'case I pay 'em more'n he will; but I go on Franklin's princerpel: 'A nimble sixpence's better'n a slow shillin'. A great ole feller thet, warn't he? I've got his life.'

'And you practice on his precepts; that's the reason you've got on so well.'

'Yas, thet an' hard knocks. The best o' doctrins arn't wuth a d–n ef ye doan't work on 'em.'

'That is true.'

We shortly afterward went to the house, and there I passed several hours in conversation with my new friend and his excellent wife. The lady, after a while, showed me over the building. It was well-built, well-arranged, and had many conveniences I did not expect to find in a backwoods dwelling. She told me its timbers and covering were of well-seasoned yellow pine—which will last for centuries—and that it was built by a Yankee carpenter, whom they had ''ported' from Charleston, paying his fare, and giving him his living and two dollars and a half a day. It had cost as near as she 'cud reckon, 'bout two thousan' dollars.'

It was five o'clock, when, shaking them warmly by the hand, I bade my pleasant friends 'good-by,' and mounting my horse rode off to the Colonel's.

The family were at supper when I returned to the mansion, and, entering the room, I took my accustomed place at the table. None present seemed disposed to conversation. The little that was said was spoken in a low, subdued tone, and no allusion was made to the startling event of the day. At last the octoroon woman asked me if I had met Mrs. Barnes at the farmer's.

'Yes,' I replied, 'and I was greatly pleased with her. She seems one of those rare women who would lend grace to even the lowest station.'

'She is a rare woman; a true, sincere Christian. Every one loves her; but few know all her worth; only those do who have gone to her in sorrow and trial, as–' and her voice trembled, and her eyes moistened– 'as I have.'

And so that poor, outcast, despised, dishonored woman, scorned and cast off by all the world, had found one sympathizing, pitying friend. Truly, 'He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.'

When the meal was over, all but Madam P– retired to the library. Tommy and I fell to reading, but the Colonel shortly rose and continued pacing up and down the apartment till the clock sounded eight. The lady then entered, and said to him:

'The negroes are ready, David; will you go, Mr. K–?'

'I think not, madam,' I replied; 'at least not now.'

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