At a little village upon its western borders I passed my school-boy days, and there it was that the old negro, formerly a slave, but long liberated and in part supported by my family, had his hut. There it was that under his influence I thoroughly contracted the love of adventure which, in the retrospect still throws a sort of world of my own around me. All sport, whether in winter or summer, night or day, rain or shine, was alike to me the same, and sooth to say, if sundry floorings, for truant days had been administered to Old Scip instead of me, the scale of justice had not unduly preponderated; for his boats, and rods, and nets, to say nothing of his musket which had belonged to a Hessian, and the long bell-mouthed French fusee were always sedulously and invitingly placed at my control. The old negro was sure to meet me as I bounded from the school-room with advice of how the tides would serve, and how the game would lie, and his words winding up his information in a low confidential under-tone still ring upon my ear, “P’rhaps young massa like to go wid old nigger.” His snug little hut down at the Creek side was covered and patched and thatched with all the experiments of years to add to its warmth and comfort. Its gables and chimney surmounted with little weather-cocks and windmills spinning most furiously at every whiff of wind, its sides covered with muskrat and loon skins nailed up to dry, and fishing rods and spears of all sizes and dimensions piled against them, the ducks and geese paddling about the threshold and his great fat hog grunting in loving proximity to the door way, while its interior was garnished with pots and kettles, and other culinary utensils; the trusty old musket hanging on its hooks above the chimney place; the fish nets and bird decoys lying in the corners, and the white-washed walls garnished and covered with pictures, and coloured prints of the most negro taste indigo and scarlet,—naval fights—men hanging on gibbets,—monstrous apparitions which had been seen—lamentable ballads, and old Satan himself in veritable semblance, tail, horns and claws, precisely as he had appeared in the year Anno Domini, 1763; and under the little square mahogany framed fly specked looking-glass, his Satanic Majesty again in full scarlet uniform as British Colonel with a party of ladies and gentlemen playing cards, his tail quietly curled around one of the legs of his arm chair, and the horse hoof ill disguised by the great rose upon his shoe. But Scip’ was safe against all such diabolic influence, for he had the charmed horse shoe firmly nailed over the entrance of his door.