to my feet, tossing aside the pieces of gingham that were
destined to form a new shirt for Mr. Horton: "Here am I, Joe, take
me!"

"You!" Joe's mild eyes looked me over, and gleamed approvingly. "You
is little, you is active, an' yo' has de bravest heart, and de
unselfishest sperrit--" he said, half soliloquizing, until I
interposed, laughingly:

"Come, now! Stop calling me names and say that I'll do!"

"Dat yo' will, honey, chile, but I nebber thought ob askin' yo' to do
sech wuck as dat! Hit ain' fittin' nohow!"

"Fitting! Anything is fitting that is honest, and will help us out,
Joe. Still, I am rather glad that the fields are quite out of sight
from the road."

"Dat's w'at dey is. Come on, den. Frank gwine wuck like a hero, now,
'cause he done think hit's saddle wuck w'at he's a doin'."

"And I'll work all the harder at the sewing," Jessie said, smiling
approval of this novel arrangement, and hastily rescuing Mr. Horton's
unfinished shirt from Guard, who had been trying to utilize it for a
bed. "There, now, see that!" she added, looking at me reproachfully.
"How could you be so careless, Leslie? Guard has been lying on Mr.
Horton's new shirt!"

"It is new, and Mr. Horton has never worn it, so I don't think it will
contaminate Guard," I retorted, perversely, as I turned to follow Joe,
who had already started for the fields.

With me perched upon his back, the long, awkward, pulling lines
discarded, and his movements directed by a gentle touch of the bridle
reins against the side of his neck, Frank worked, as Joe had said he
would, like a hero. The other horse, being of a meek and quiet spirit,
had made no trouble from the outset; he was content to follow Frank's
lead, so we got on famously with the plowing from the day that I was
installed as postillion.

"I always supposed that plowing was such a monotonous kind of
business," I remarked to Joe one day, taking advantage of the
opportunity offered by his stopping the team to wipe away the
perspiration that was streaming down my face. For the day was very
warm, and we had been working steadily.

"If mon'tonus means hot, honey chile, I reckons yo's right," responded
Joe. "Yo's purty face is a sight to behole; red as a turkey cock's
comb, hit is, an' dat streaked wif dirt dat dey doan nuffin' show
natteral but yo' eyes."

"One good thing, Joe, I can't look any dirtier than I feel," I replied
wearily, and with a longing glance toward the river that rippled