ouse between its pinchers,
and held it there until it was quite dead.

But the Bermuda fields were not the only resource of the children. There
were seasons when Uncle Plato, who was Meriwether Clopton's
carriage-driver, came to town with the big waggon to haul home the
supplies necessary for the plantation; loads of bagging and rope; cases
of brogan shoes, and hats for the negroes; and bales on bales of
osnaburgs and blankets. The appearance of the Clopton waggon on the
public square was hailed by these youngsters with delight. They always
made a rush for it, and, in riding back and forth with Uncle Plato, they
spent some of the most delightful moments of their lives.

And then in the fall season, there was the big gin running at the
Clopton place, with old Beck, the blind mule, going round and round,
turning the cogged and pivoted post that set the machinery in motion.
But the youngsters rarely grew tired of riding back and forth with Uncle
Plato. He was the one person in the world who catered most completely to
their whims, who was most responsive to their budding and eager fancies,
and who entered most enthusiastically into the regions created and
peopled by Nan's skittish and fantastic imagination.

These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especially
Nan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which have
been set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along with
Gabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, and
took as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if he
were responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished Uncle
Plato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy man
began to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a common
hearth--a faithful and believing audience. Uncle AEsop, it may be, cared
less for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismal
and perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed his
behind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on that
account. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of his
small audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetual
delight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shook
his head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.

Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place to
Shady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.

"Toob