LITMIR.BIZ

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the sleepers on the floor and stood by an open window. His mind was stirring with a curious desire to see the ghost that haunted this house, its spacious grounds and fields. He, too, had read Uncle Tom's Cabin, and wondered. The ghost must be here hiding in some dark corner of cabin or field—the ghost of deathless longing for freedom—the ghost of cruelty—the ghost of the bloodhound, the lash and the auction block.

      Somehow he couldn't realize that such things could be, now that he was a guest in a Southern home and saw the bright side of their life. Never had he seen anything brighter than the smiles of those negro musicians as they proudly touched their instruments: the violin, the banjo, the flute, the triangle and castanets, and watched the dancers swing through each number. There could be no mistake about the ring of joy in Sam's voice. It throbbed with unction. It pulsed with pride. Its joy was contagious. He caught himself glancing at his rolling eyes and swaying body. Once he muttered aloud:

      "Just look at that fool nigger!"

      But somewhere in this paradise of flowers and song birds, of music and dance, of rustling silk, of youth and beauty, the Ghost of Slavery crouched.

      In a quiet way he would watch for it to walk. He had to summon all his pride of Section and training in the catch words of the North to keep from falling under the charm of the beautiful life he felt enfolding him.

      He no longer wondered why every Northern man who moved South forgot the philosophy of the Snows and became a child of the Sun. He felt the subtle charm of it stealing into his heart and threw off the spell with an effort.

      A sparrow chirped under the window. A redbird flashed from a rosebush and a mocking bird from a huge magnolia began to softly sing his morning love song to his mate.

      He heard a yawn, turned and saw Custis rubbing his eyes.

      "For heaven's sake, Phil, why don't you sleep?"

      "Tried and can't."

      "Don't like your bed?"

      "Too much excited."

      "One of those girls hooked you?"

      "No. I couldn't make up my mind. So many beauties they rattled me."

      "All right," Custis said briskly. "Let's get up and look around the old plantation."

      "Good," Phil cried.

      Custis called Jeb Stuart in vain. He refused to answer or to budge.

      Phil found his shoes at the door neatly blacked and the moment he began to stir a grinning black boy was at his heels to take his slightest order.

      "I don't want _any_thing!" he said at last to his dusky tormentor.

      "Nuttin tall, sah?"

      "Nuttin tall!"

      Phil smiled at the eager, rolling eyes.

      "Get out—you make me laugh—"

      The boy ducked.

      "Yassah—des call me if ye wants me—I'se right outside de do'."

      The two cadets ate breakfast alone. The house was yet asleep—except the children. Their voices could be heard on the lawn at play. They had been put to bed early, at eleven o'clock. They were up with the birds as usual. The sun was an hour high, shining the glory of a perfect September morning. The boys strolled on the lawn. The children were everywhere, playing in groups. Little black and white boys mixed indiscriminately. Robbie Lee was playing rooster fight with Sid, his boon companion. The little black boy born nearest his birthday was dedicated to be his friend, companion and body servant for life.

      Phil paused to see the rooster fight.

      The boys folded their arms and flew at each other sideways, using their elbows as a rooster uses his spurs.

      Robbie was pressing Sid against the fence of the rose garden. Sid's return blows lacked strength.

      Robbie stamped his foot angrily.

      "Come on now—no foolin'—fight! There's no fun in a fight, if you don't fight!"

      Sid bucked up and flew at his enemy.

      Robbie saw the two older boys watching and gave a star performance. As Sid lunged at him with uplifted arms, and drew back to strike a stunning blow, Robbie suddenly stooped, hurled his elbow under Sid's arm, lifted him clear of the ground and he fell sprawling.

      Robbie stood in triumph over the prostrate figure.

      Phil laughed.

      "You got him that time, Robbie!"

      Robbie squared himself, raised his spurs and waited for Sid to rise.

      Sid was in no hurry. He had enough. He hadn't cried. But he was close to it.

      "Ye needn't put up dem spurs at me no mo'."

      "Come on again!" Robbie challenged.

      "Na, sah. I'se done dead. Ye stick dat spur clean froo me. Hit mighty nigh come out on de odder side!"

      "Got enough?"

      The game was suddenly ended by a barefoot white boy approaching Robbie. Johnny Doyle carried a dozen teal ducks, six in each hand. They were so heavy for his hands that their heads dragged the ground.

      Robbie rushed to meet his friend.

      "Oh, John, where'd you get the ducks?"

      "Me and daddy killed 'em this mornin' at sun-up on the river."

      "Why, the duck season isn't on yet, is it?" Custis asked the boy.

      "No, sir, but daddy saw a big raft of teal swingin' into the bend of the river yesterday and we got up before daylight and got a mess."

      "You brought 'em to me, John?" Robbie asked eagerly.

      "Jes the same, Robbie. Dad sent 'em to Colonel Lee."

      "That's fine of your daddy, John," Custis said, placing his hand on the little bare sunburnt head.

      "Yessir, my daddy says Colonel Lee's the greatest man in this county and he's mighty proud to be his neighbor."

      "Tell him my father will thank him personally before we leave and say for all that he has given us a treat."

      Custis handed the ducks to Sid.

      "Take them to the kitchen and tell Aunt Hannah to have them for dinner, sure."

      Sid started for the kitchen and Robbie called after him:

      "Hurry back, Sid—"

      "Yassah—right away, sah!"

      Robbie seized John's hand.

      "You'll stay all day?"

      "I can't."

      "We're goin' fishin'—"

      "Honest?"

      "Sure. Uncle Ben's sick. But after dinner he's promised to take us. He's not too sick to fish."

      "I can't stay," the barefoot boy sighed.

      "Come on. There's three bird's nests in the orchard. The second layin'. It ain't no harm to break up the second nest. Birds've no business layin' twice in one season. We ought to break 'em up."

      "I'm afraid I can't."

      His tone grew weaker and Robbie pressed him.

      "Come on. We'll get the bird's eggs and chase the calves and colts till the dinner bell rings, ride the horses home from the fields, and go fishin' after dinner and stay till dark."

      "No—"

      "Come on!"

      John glanced up the road toward the big gate beyond which his mother was waiting his return. The temptation was more than his boy's soul could resist. He shook his head—paused—and grinned.

      "Come

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