The Battle Ground | Page 3

whip an intricate figure in the sand of the road. "Git up an' come along
with us, sonny," he said cordially; but Zeke only grinned in reply, and
the children laughed and waved their handkerchiefs from the wall.
"Good-by, Dolly, and Mirandy, and Sukey Sue!" they shouted, while
the women, bowing over the rolling wheels, tossed back a fragment of
the song:--
"We hope ter meet you in heaven, whar we'll Part no mo', Whar we'll
part no mo'; Gawd A'moughty bless you twel we Me--et a--gin."
"Twel we meet agin," chirped the little girls, tripping into the chorus.
Then, with a last rumble, the wagon went by, and Zeke came trotting
back and straddled the stone wall, where he sat looking down upon the
loose poppies that fringed the yellowed edge of the wheat.

"Dey's gwine way-way f'om hyer, Marse Champe," he said dreamily.
"Dey's gwine right spang over dar whar de sun done come f'om."
"Colonel Minor bought 'em," Champe explained, sliding from the wall,
"and he bought Dolly dirt cheap--I heard Uncle say so--" With a grin he
looked up at the small black figure perched upon the crumbling stones.
"You'd better look out how you steal any more of my fishing lines, or
I'll sell you," he threatened.
"Gawd er live! I ain' stole one on 'em sence las' mont'," protested Zeke,
as he turned a somersault into the road, "en dat warn' stealin' 'case hit
warn' wu'th it," he added, rising to his feet and staring wistfully after
the wagon as it vanished in a sunny cloud of dust.
Over the broad meadows, filled with scattered wild flowers, the sound
of the chant still floated, with a shrill and troubled sweetness, upon the
wind. As he listened the little negro broke into a jubilant refrain,
beating his naked feet in the dust:--
"Gawd A'moughty bless you twel we Me--et a--gin."
Then he looked slyly up at his young master.
"I 'low dar's one thing you cyarn do, Marse Champe."
"I bet there isn't," retorted Champe.
"You kin sell me ter Marse Minor--but Lawd, Lawd, you cyarn mek
mammy leave off whuppin' me. You cyarn do dat widout you 'uz a real
ole marster hese'f."
"I reckon I can," said Champe, indignantly. "I'd just like to see her lay
hands on you again. I can make mammy leave off whipping him, can't I,
Betty?"
But Betty, with a toss of her head, took her revenge.
"'Tain't so long since yo' mammy whipped you," she rejoined. "An' I
reckon 'tain't so long since you needed it."

As she stood there, a spirited little figure, in a patch of faint sunshine,
her hair threw a halo of red gold about her head. When she smiled--and
she smiled now, saucily enough--her eyes had a trick of narrowing until
they became mere beams of light between her lashes. Her eyes would
smile, though her lips were as prim as a preacher's.
Virginia gave a timid pull at Betty's frock. "Champe's goin' home with
us," she said, "his uncle told him to--You're goin' home with us, ain't
you, Champe?"
"I ain't goin' home," responded Betty, jerking from Virginia's grasp.
She stood warm yet resolute in the middle of the road, her bonnet
swinging in her hands. "I ain't goin' home," she repeated.
Turning his back squarely upon her, Champe broke into a whistle of
unconcern. "You'd just better come along," he called over his shoulder
as he started off. "You'd just better come along, or you'll catch it."
"I ain't comin'," answered Betty, defiantly, and as they passed away
kicking the dust before them, she swung her bonnet hard, and spoke
aloud to herself. "I ain't comin'," she said stubbornly.
The distance lengthened; the three small figures passed the wheat field,
stopped for an instant to gather green apples that had fallen from a stray
apple tree, and at last slowly dwindled into the white streak of the road.
She was alone on the deserted turnpike.
For a moment she hesitated, caught her breath, and even took three
steps on the homeward way; then turning suddenly she ran rapidly in
the opposite direction. Over the deepening shadows she sped as lightly
as a hare.
At the end of a half mile, when her breath came in little pants, she
stopped with a nervous start and looked about her. The loneliness
seemed drawing closer like a mist, and the cry of a whip-poor-will from
the little stream in the meadow sent frightened thrills, like needles,
through her limbs.

Straight ahead the sun was setting in a pale red west, against which the
mountains stood out as if sculptured in stone. On one side swept the
pasture where a few sheep browsed; on the other, at the place where
two roads met, there was a blasted