Bab Bab 7 · The Mother’s Struggle

. The Mother’s Struggle

It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolate

and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom’s

cabin.

Her husband’s suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child, all

blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning sense of the risk she

was running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting

loose from the protection of a friend whom she loved and revered. Then

there was the parting from every familiar object,—the place where she

had grown up, the trees under which she had played, the groves where

she had walked many an evening in happier days, by the side of her

young husband,—everything, as it lay in the clear, frosty starlight,

seemed to speak reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could she go

from a home like that?

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of

frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old enough

to have walked by her side, and, in an indifferent case, she would only

have led him by the hand; but now the bare thought of putting him out

of her arms made her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a

convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly forward.

The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at the

sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood backward

to her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within herself

at the strength that seemed to be come upon her; for she felt the

weight of her boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of

fear seemed to increase the supernatural power that bore her on, while

from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to

a Friend above—“Lord, help! Lord, save me!”

If it were _your_ Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be

torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning,—if you had seen the

man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had

only from twelve o’clock till morning to make good your escape,—how

fast could _you_ walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief

hours, with the darling at your bosom,—the little sleepy head on your

shoulder,—the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?

For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept him waking;

but his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or sound, and so

assured him that if he were only still she would certainly save him,

that he clung quietly round her neck, only asking, as he found himself

sinking to sleep,

“Mother, I don’t need to keep awake, do I?”

“No, my darling; sleep, if you want to.”

“But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won’t let him get me?”

“No! so may God help me!” said his mother, with a paler cheek, and a

brighter light in her large dark eyes.

“You’re _sure_, an’t you, mother?”

“Yes, _sure_!” said the mother, in a voice that startled herself; for

it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that was no part of her;

and the boy dropped his little weary head on her shoulder, and was soon

asleep. How the touch of those warm arms, the gentle breathings that

came in her neck, seemed to add fire and spirit to her movements! It

seemed to her as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from

every gentle touch and movement of the sleeping, confiding child.

Sublime is the dominion of the mind over the body, that, for a time,

can make flesh and nerve impregnable, and string the sinews like steel,

so that the weak become so mighty.

The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by her

dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went, leaving one familiar

object after another, slacking not, pausing not, till reddening

daylight found her many a long mile from all traces of any familiar

objects upon the open highway.

She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections, in

the little village of T——, not far from the Ohio river, and knew the

road well. To go thither, to escape across the Ohio river, were the

first hurried outlines of her plan of escape; beyond that, she could

only hope in God.

When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway, with that

alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which seems to

be a sort of inspiration, she became aware that her headlong pace and

distracted air might bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore

put the boy on the ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she

walked on at as rapid a pace as she thought consistent with the

preservation of appearances. In her little bundle she had provided a

store of cakes and apples, which she used as expedients for quickening

the speed of the child, rolling the apple some yards before them, when

the boy would run with all his might after it; and this ruse, often

repeated, carried them over many a half-mile.

After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland, through which

murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst,

she climbed over the fence with him; and, sitting down behind a large

rock which concealed them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out

of her little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not

eat; and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wedge some

of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her

throat would choke her.

“No, no, Harry darling! mother can’t eat till you are safe! We must go

on—on—till we come to the river!” And she hurried again into the road,

and again constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly forward.

She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was personally

known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she reflected

that the well-known kindness of the family would be of itself a blind

to suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a

fugitive. As she was also so white as not to be known as of colored

lineage, without a critical survey, and her child was white also, it

was much easier for her to pass on unsuspected.

On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to rest

herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as the danger

decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous

system lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry.

The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather pleased than

otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted,

without examination, Eliza’s statement, that she “was going on a little

piece, to spend a week with her friends,”—all which she hoped in her

heart might prove strictly true.

An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T——, by the Ohio

river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance

was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of

liberty on the other side.

It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent; great

cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid

waters. Owing to the peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side,

the land bending far out into the water, the ice had been lodged and

detained in great quantities, and the narrow channel which swept round

the bend was full of ice, piled one cake over another, thus forming a

temporary barrier to the descending ice, which lodged, and formed a

great, undulating raft, filling up the whole river, and extending

almost to the Kentucky shore.

Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable aspect of

things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat from

running, and then turned into a small public house on the bank, to make

a few inquiries.

The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing operations

over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in

her hand, as Eliza’s sweet and plaintive voice arrested her.

“What is it?” she said.

“Isn’t there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to B——, now?”

she said.

“No, indeed!” said the woman; “the boats has stopped running.”

Eliza’s look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she

said, inquiringly,

“May be you’re wanting to get over?—anybody sick? Ye seem mighty

anxious?”

“I’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza. “I never heard of

it till last night, and I’ve walked quite a piece today, in hopes to

get to the ferry.”

“Well, now, that’s onlucky,” said the woman, whose motherly sympathies

were much aroused; “I’m re’lly consarned for ye. Solomon!” she called,

from the window, towards a small back building. A man, in leather apron

and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.

“I say, Sol,” said the woman, “is that ar man going to tote them bar’ls

over tonight?”

“He said he should try, if ’t was any way prudent,” said the man.

“There’s a man a piece down here, that’s going over with some truck

this evening, if he durs’ to; he’ll be in here to supper tonight, so

you’d better set down and wait. That’s a sweet little fellow,” added

the woman, offering him a cake.

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.

“Poor fellow! he isn’t used to walking, and I’ve hurried him on so,”

said Eliza.

“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman, opening into a small

bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon

it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her there

was no rest. As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged

her on; and she gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters

that lay between her and liberty.

Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the

course of her pursuers.

Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried on

table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before,

that it required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the

order was fairly given out in Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt

Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only

gave certain very gruff snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on

with every operation in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial

manner.

For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the

servants generally that Missis would not be particularly disobliged by

delay; and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents occurred

constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight

contrived to upset the gravy; and then gravy had to be got up _de

novo_, with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring

with dogged precision, answering shortly, to all suggestions of haste,

that she “warn’t a going to have raw gravy on the table, to help

nobody’s catchings.” One tumbled down with the water, and had to go to

the spring for more; and another precipitated the butter into the path

of events; and there was from time to time giggling news brought into

the kitchen that “Mas’r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn’t

sit in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin’ and stalkin’ to the winders

and through the porch.”

“Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. “He’ll get wus nor

oneasy, one of these days, if he don’t mend his ways. _His_ master’ll

be sending for him, and then see how he’ll look!”

“He’ll go to torment, and no mistake,” said little Jake.

“He desarves it!” said Aunt Chloe, grimly; “he’s broke a many, many,

many hearts,—I tell ye all!” she said, stopping, with a fork uplifted

in her hands; “it’s like what Mas’r George reads in Ravelations,—souls

a callin’ under the altar! and a callin’ on the Lord for vengeance on

sich!—and by and by the Lord he’ll hear ’em—so he will!”

Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to with

open mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole kitchen

was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.

“Sich’ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won’t ther?” said Andy.

“I’d be glad to see it, I’ll be boun’,” said little Jake.

“Chil’en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom,

who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door.

“Chil’en!” he said, “I’m afeard you don’t know what ye’re sayin’.

Forever is a _dre’ful_ word, chil’en; it’s awful to think on ’t. You

oughtenter wish that ar to any human crittur.”

“We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said Andy; “nobody can

help wishing it to them, they ’s so awful wicked.”

“Don’t natur herself kinder cry out on ’em?” said Aunt Chloe. “Don’t

dey tear der suckin’ baby right off his mother’s breast, and sell him,

and der little children as is crying and holding on by her

clothes,—don’t dey pull ’em off and sells ’em? Don’t dey tear wife and

husband apart?” said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, “when it’s jest

takin’ the very life on ’em?—and all the while does they feel one bit,

don’t dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil

don’t get them, what’s he good for?” And Aunt Chloe covered her face

with her checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest.

“Pray for them that ’spitefully use you, the good book says,” says Tom.

“Pray for ’em!” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it’s too tough! I can’t pray for

’em.”

“It’s natur, Chloe, and natur ’s strong,” said Tom, “but the Lord’s

grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awful state a

poor crittur’s soul ’s in that’ll do them ar things,—you oughter thank

God that you an’t _like_ him, Chloe. I’m sure I’d rather be sold, ten

thousand times over, than to have all that ar poor crittur’s got to

answer for.”

“So ’d I, a heap,” said Jake. “Lor, _shouldn’t_ we cotch it, Andy?”

Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.

“I’m glad Mas’r didn’t go off this morning, as he looked to,” said Tom;

“that ar hurt me more than sellin’, it did. Mebbe it might have been

natural for him, but ’t would have come desp’t hard on me, as has known

him from a baby; but I’ve seen Mas’r, and I begin ter feel sort o’

reconciled to the Lord’s will now. Mas’r couldn’t help hisself; he did

right, but I’m feared things will be kinder goin’ to rack, when I’m

gone Mas’r can’t be spected to be a pryin’ round everywhar, as I’ve

done, a keepin’ up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they ’s

powerful car’less. That ar troubles me.”

The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.

“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice that I give this

gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the

spot when he wants you; he’s going today to look after his other

business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like,

boy.”

“Thank you, Mas’r,” said Tom.

“And mind yourself,” said the trader, “and don’t come it over your

master with any o’ yer nigger tricks; for I’ll take every cent out of

him, if you an’t thar. If he’d hear to me, he wouldn’t trust any on

ye—slippery as eels!”

“Mas’r,” said Tom,—and he stood very straight,—“I was jist eight years

old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and you wasn’t a year old.

‘Thar,’ says she, ‘Tom, that’s to be _your_ young Mas’r; take good care

on him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, Mas’r, have I ever broke

word to you, or gone contrary to you, ’specially since I was a

Christian?”

Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.

“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but the truth; and if I

was able to help it, all the world shouldn’t buy you.”

“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby, “you shall be

redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir,” she said

to Haley, “take good account of who you sell him to, and let me know.”

“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring him up in a

year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back.”

“I’ll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,” said Mrs.

Shelby.

“Of course,” said the trader, “all ’s equal with me; li’ves trade ’em

up as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin’, you

know, ma’am; that’s all any on us wants, I, s’pose.”

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar

impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of

putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and

insensible he appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his

succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the

greater her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She

therefore graciously smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and did all

she could to make time pass imperceptibly.

At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,

apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the

morning.

Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and

ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting, in

flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent success of the

operation, now that he had “farly come to it.”

“Your master, I s’pose, don’t keep no dogs,” said Haley, thoughtfully,

as he prepared to mount.

“Heaps on ’em,” said Sam, triumphantly; “thar’s Bruno—he’s a roarer!

and, besides that, ’bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur

or uther.”

“Poh!” said Haley,—and he said something else, too, with regard to the

said dogs, at which Sam muttered,

“I don’t see no use cussin’ on ’em, no way.”

“But your master don’t keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don’t) for

trackin’ out niggers.”

Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and

desperate simplicity.

“Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they’s the kind,

though they han’t never had no practice. They ’s _far_ dogs, though, at

most anything, if you’d get ’em started. Here, Bruno,” he called,

whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously

toward them.

“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble up now.”

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he

did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to

Haley’s indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.

“I ’s ’stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful gravity. “This

yer’s a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn’t be a makin’ game. This yer

an’t no way to help Mas’r.”

“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley, decidedly,

after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. “I know the way of

all of ’em,—they makes tracks for the underground.”

“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat’s de idee. Mas’r Haley hits de thing right in

de middle. Now, der’s two roads to de river,—de dirt road and der

pike,—which Mas’r mean to take?”

Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new

geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a vehement

reiteration.

“’Cause,” said Sam, “I’d rather be ’clined to ’magine that Lizy ’d take

de dirt road, bein’ it’s the least travelled.”

Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally

inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view

of the case.

“If yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he said,

contemplatively as he pondered a moment.

The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse

Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as

apparently to run a great risk of failing off his horse, while Sam’s

face was immovably composed into the most doleful gravity.

“Course,” said Sam, “Mas’r can do as he’d ruther, go de straight road,

if Mas’r thinks best,—it’s all one to us. Now, when I study ’pon it, I

think de straight road de best, _deridedly_.”

“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley, thinking aloud,

and not minding Sam’s remark.

“Dar an’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “gals is pecular; they never does

nothin’ ye thinks they will; mose gen’lly the contrary. Gals is nat’lly

made contrary; and so, if you thinks they’ve gone one road, it is

sartin you’d better go t’ other, and then you’ll be sure to find ’em.

Now, my private ’pinion is, Lizy took der road; so I think we’d better

take de straight one.”

This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to dispose

Haley particularly to the straight road, and he announced decidedly

that he should go the other, and asked Sam when they should come to it.

“A little piece ahead,” said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with the eye

which was on Andy’s side of the head; and he added, gravely, “but I’ve

studded on de matter, and I’m quite clar we ought not to go dat ar way.

I nebber been over it no way. It’s despit lonesome, and we might lose

our way,—whar we’d come to, de Lord only knows.”

“Nevertheless,” said Haley, “I shall go that way.”

“Now I think on ’t, I think I hearn ’em tell that dat ar road was all

fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an’t it, Andy?”

Andy wasn’t certain; he’d only “hearn tell” about that road, but never

been over it. In short, he was strictly noncommittal.

Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies

of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favor of the

dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived

was involuntary on Sam’s part at first, and his confused attempts to

dissuade him he set down to a desperate lying on second thoughts, as

being unwilling to implicate Liza.

When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged briskly into it,

followed by Sam and Andy.

Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly been a

thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many years after the

laying of the new pike. It was open for about an hour’s ride, and after

that it was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact

perfectly well,—indeed, the road had been so long closed up, that Andy

had never heard of it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful

submission, only groaning and vociferating occasionally that ’t was

“desp’t rough, and bad for Jerry’s foot.”

“Now, I jest give yer warning,” said Haley, “I know yer; yer won’t get

me to turn off this road, with all yer fussin’—so you shet up!”

“Mas’r will go his own way!” said Sam, with rueful submission, at the

same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight was now very

near the explosive point.

Sam was in wonderful spirits,—professed to keep a very brisk

lookout,—at one time exclaiming that he saw “a gal’s bonnet” on the top

of some distant eminence, or calling to Andy “if that thar wasn’t

‘Lizy’ down in the hollow;” always making these exclamations in some

rough or craggy part of the road, where the sudden quickening of speed

was a special inconvenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping

Haley in a state of constant commotion.

After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a

precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a

large farming establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the hands

being employed in the fields; but, as the barn stood conspicuously and

plainly square across the road, it was evident that their journey in

that direction had reached a decided finale.

“Wan’t dat ar what I telled Mas’r?” said Sam, with an air of injured

innocence. “How does strange gentleman spect to know more about a

country dan de natives born and raised?”

“You rascal!” said Haley, “you knew all about this.”

“Didn’t I tell yer I _knowd_, and yer wouldn’t believe me? I telled

Mas’r ’t was all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn’t spect we could

get through,—Andy heard me.”

It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket

his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the

right about, and took up their line of march for the highway.

In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three-quarters

of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in the village

tavern that the party came riding into the same place. Eliza was

standing by the window, looking out in another direction, when Sam’s

quick eye caught a glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards

behind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and

uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation, which startled her at

once; she drew suddenly back; the whole train swept by the window,

round to the front door.

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to Eliza.

Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child, and

sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of

her just as she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing himself

from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was after her

like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her scarce

seemed to touch the ground, and a moment brought her to the water’s

edge. Right on behind they came; and, nerved with strength such as God

gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, she

vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of

ice beyond. It was a desperate leap—impossible to anything but madness

and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively cried out, and

lifted up their hands, as she did it.

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and

creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid there not a moment.

With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still

another cake; stumbling—leaping—slipping—springing upwards again! Her

shoes are gone—her stockings cut from her feet—while blood marked every

step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she

saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank.

“Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!” said the man, with an oath.

Eliza recognized the voice and face for a man who owned a farm not far

from her old home.

“O, Mr. Symmes!—save me—do save me—do hide me!” said Eliza.

“Why, what’s this?” said the man. “Why, if ’tan’t Shelby’s gal!”

“My child!—this boy!—he’d sold him! There is his Mas’r,” said she,

pointing to the Kentucky shore. “O, Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little

boy!”

“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew her up the

steep bank. “Besides, you’re a right brave gal. I like grit, wherever I

see it.”

When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.

“I’d be glad to do something for ye,” said he; “but then there’s nowhar

I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell ye to go _thar_,” said

he, pointing to a large white house which stood by itself, off the main

street of the village. “Go thar; they’re kind folks. Thar’s no kind o’

danger but they’ll help you,—they’re up to all that sort o’ thing.”

“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza, earnestly.

“No ’casion, no ’casion in the world,” said the man. “What I’ve done’s

of no ’count.”

“And, oh, surely, sir, you won’t tell any one!”

“Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for? In course not,”

said the man. “Come, now, go along like a likely, sensible gal, as you

are. You’ve arnt your liberty, and you shall have it, for all me.”

The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and swiftly

away. The man stood and looked after her.

“Shelby, now, mebbe won’t think this yer the most neighborly thing in

the world; but what’s a feller to do? If he catches one of my gals in

the same fix, he’s welcome to pay back. Somehow I never could see no

kind o’ critter a strivin’ and pantin’, and trying to clar theirselves,

with the dogs arter ’em and go agin ’em. Besides, I don’t see no kind

of ’casion for me to be hunter and catcher for other folks, neither.”

So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been instructed

in his constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed into

acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better

situated and more enlightened, he would not have been left to do.

Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza

had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank, inquiring look on

Sam and Andy.

“That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business,” said Sam.

“The gal ’s got seven devils in her, I believe!” said Haley. “How like

a wildcat she jumped!”

“Wal, now,” said Sam, scratching his head, “I hope Mas’r’ll ’scuse us

trying dat ar road. Don’t think I feel spry enough for dat ar, no way!”

and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.

“_You_ laugh!” said the trader, with a growl.

“Lord bless you, Mas’r, I couldn’t help it now,” said Sam, giving way

to the long pent-up delight of his soul. “She looked so curi’s, a

leapin’ and springin’—ice a crackin’—and only to hear her,—plump! ker

chunk! ker splash! Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam and Andy

laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.

“I’ll make ye laugh t’ other side yer mouths!” said the trader, laying

about their heads with his riding-whip.

Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses

before he was up.

“Good-evening, Mas’r!” said Sam, with much gravity. “I berry much spect

Missis be anxious ’bout Jerry. Mas’r Haley won’t want us no longer.

Missis wouldn’t hear of our ridin’ the critters over Lizy’s bridge

tonight;” and, with a facetious poke into Andy’s ribs, he started off,

followed by the latter, at full speed,—their shouts of laughter coming

faintly on the wind.