th
of gallberry and scrub-pine. Now and then they pass the solitary hut
of a charcoal-burner, surrounded by its little patch of meagre corn; a
pack of cur dogs rush out and bark fiercely, within the safe limits of
the wattle fence surrounding the premises; white-headed children gaze
from the doorways at the passing carriages.

At the last settlement which they pass, a woman and a small,
pale-faced boy are gathering in their corn crop. They are the wife and
son of Bolin Brazle, an idle but good-natured vagabond, who spends
his days scraping upon his fiddle up at the store, or occasionally,
upon the promise of a drink, lending a hand in rafting tar-barrels. In
consequence of the presentation of a worn-out mule, Bolin swears by
the planter, wants to run him for the presidency, and obstinately
refuses to receive pay for his charcoal. The matter is finally
arranged by a barrel of corn being sent as a present whenever a load
of charcoal is needed.

Soon after leaving the "Slashes," a huddle of houses standing
irregularly in a grove of magnificent oaks comes into view. In passing
the one which does double duty as store and post-office, the
travellers look at it with the realization that it is the connecting
link with the outside world, as from it the bi-weekly mail is
dispensed. Inside, some one (Brazle, no doubt) is scraping a lively
jig upon his fiddle; on the long piazza men, lounging in chairs tilted
against the wall, take off their hats to the carriages as they roll
by. The planter draws his rein for a little friendly greeting, and the
men, squirting tobacco juice, stand around and lazily report the
country-side news as to the opening of the cotton, the state of the
river, etc. Even the screech of the fiddle has died away.

The long descents of the ferry hill commence, and the carriages roll
pleasantly between deeply wooded banks. The approach to the river is
marked by long rows of tar-barrels awaiting shipment, or rather
rafting. From this point the road has become a sort of concrete from
years of leakage from the tar-barrels. The children shriek with joy as
the carriages come to a stop, and, craning their heads out, they
behold the great tawny river in all its majesty. The repeated
hallooings for the ferryman are at length responded to from far
upstream. The old scamp is off fishing, and the party seek the shade,
where a spring of clear water bubbles from a bank. While the children
are drinking copious draughts, the