chief part of her
"History of America," and the founding of the Colonies safely lodged in
the mind-cells under her red-gold hair.

And although Ingleside seemed deserted with the sailing away of its only
son, the old charm yet lingered about his home.

One Saturday night in late October, Sally wandered over to the
well-known plantation. Bill was combing and rubbing down the horses,
Hotspur, Lord Rollin, Springer, Lady Grace, and Crazy Jim.

Sally knew them all, could call half a dozen of them by their names. It
sent a pang of regret to her little young heart, seeing the animals
that would feel the hand of their young master on the bridles no more
for nearly a year to come.

A little farther on Sam Spruce was picking at a banjo, and trolling in a
sweet tenor an old plantation song.

Everything seemed pleasant yet tinged with sadness, for all reminded her
of the absent Prince. Not many children have the depths of imagination
that had Maid Sally. But she would be thirteen in the winter, hers was a
very loving, longing young heart, and she was almost alone in the world,
for such children as sometimes came around Slipside Row were not
companions for her or such as she could like.

And on this lovely, dreamy night, she strolled on and on, until she came
close to Mammy Leezer seated flat on the grass, talking away to herself
as fast as her tongue could go. Her back was turned to Sally, and in the
growing twilight she was not likely to see the lonely child.

Mammy's pipe was in her hand, and every minute or two she would stop and
take a long breath at it, sending a spire of curling smoke above her
head. Sally could hear plainly what she was saying, and as usual the
sound of her sweet voice was comforting.

"No," she said, "I doan't like it one mite seein' my young Mars' Lion
fly in' off to Inglan', and hearin' all sorts ob talk 'bout wars an'
rumors o' wars. What dat chile got to do with sech tings, I like to
know? Lorr sakes, it ain't but yes'day I trot 'im on my ole knee first
to Bosting, den to Lynn, den to Salum, and home, home agin! And Lorr
a-massy! how dat lil trollop screech and scream when I put him on my big
shoe and sing dat trip song!"

Mammy stopped, held her pipe in a hand that rested on her knee, and
softly wagging one foot, she began, in a slow, dreamy, singsong:

"Trip-a-trop-a-tronjes,
De-vorkens-in-de-boonjes,
De-koejes-in-de-klaver,
De-Paarden-in-de-haver,
De-eenjes-in-de-wa