a
halt by a running stream, where, seated upon a fallen log or mossy
bank, they open their well-stored baskets, and dine. The horses utter
impatient whinnies as their drivers dip their buckets into the
sparkling water of the little stream, and, when these are lifted to
their heads, thirstily thrust their muzzles into the cool depths, and
drink long and deeply of the refreshing draughts.

At sunset, the tired little ones begin to look out for the white
chimneys of old John Tayler's wayside inn, where they are to pass the
night. This house has, for generations, been the halting-place for
planters' families. Tayler's grandfather and his father have
entertained bygone generations; and so it is not strange that when the
little cortege draw up before the old piazza, and the red light from
the pine blaze streams out from the open door, not only old John, but
his wife and two elderly daughters stand with beaming faces to give
the travelers a hearty greeting, kindly to usher them into the
carpetless room and seat them upon the stiff "split-bottomed" chairs.
While the women busy themselves in getting supper, old John talks
crops and politics to his guests, who, on their part, calmly accept
the discomforts of the little inn as one of the unalterable laws of
nature, without any idea of the possibility of improvement, swallow
without complaint the nauseous coffee, and rest philosophically under
the home-made sheets and blankets, feebly wondering that so much
weight should contain so little warmth.

When supper is over, the women throw a fresh torch upon the fire, and,
as it crackles up the wide chimney, and sends its red light and sweet
odors over the room, they set themselves to their tasks of picking the
seeds from the "raw cotton," for, being famous spinners and weavers,
they disdain that which has had its staples torn by the teeth of the
gin.

Upon the second day, the party leave the hills, now gorgeous in their
autumnal brilliancy, the rocky roads, and the swiftly running streams
of the up-country, and enter the lonely region where the great
turpentine trees rear their lofty crests, and interminable sandy roads
stretch away into dimness between columns of stately pines whose lofty
tops make solemn music to the sighing wind.

The third day finds them in "The Slashes," a desolate region inhabited
by squatters. As they jolt over corduroy roads between pools of
stagnant waters, the travelers look out wearily upon a sparse grow