Coming out behind the negro quarters, we struck the beaten road that ran beside the main ditch, down the middle of the plantation, to the swamp at its further side. On either hand ran off the lateral ditches, and before us stretched a thousand acres of cultivated land, without a tree or a fence, as level as a billiard-table, and almost as green. The corn, of which only enough was planted to furnish the “mules and negroes” with food, was beginning to tassel, and, since the rain, one almost fancied the low, crackling sounds proceeding from it to arise from its lusty growth. Most of it waved over the backs of our horses as we rode among it. Separated by only a shallow ditch from the corn was the cotton, which, for lack of “plant-cane,” was being grown on a part of the land. It grew in cleanly-worked beds, that were not unlike a Northern sweet-potato ridge, and was already ten to fifteen inches high. Here and there were a few “blooms”—the first of the season. They had expanded during the night, were now of a delicate, creamy white, would next day be a dull red, and by evening would fall, leaving the germ of the boll, the tiny throne of the coming king. Crossing other ditches, we came to the waving expanse of sugar, now nearly three feet high, and growing luxuriantly. A few negroes had come out with their plows, since the rain, and were throwing up the rich, fresh earth against the roots. No time was to be lost, for other things grew as rapidly, in the steaming moisture and under the genial heat, as the cane or cotton, and woe to the planter if, by a day or two of delay, he should be “caught in the grass.” The negroes drove their mules along rapidly, but, save when speaking to the animals, in perfect silence. There was no conversation among themselves, as they passed or walked side by side on adjacent rows. A few yards away, one would scarcely know the “plow-gang” was in the field. Cross a ditch, and you were in a solitude of boundless wealth, without a trace or sound of the men that made it, and might ride back and forth over the plantation for miles, without finding them again. Nearly all the negroes had formerly been Mr. May’s slaves. “Did you belong to Mr. May before the war?” I said to one stalwart fellow. “Bress ye, yes. Who’d ye s’pose I b’long to? I b’longed to Mass’r May, of co’se, and to his father afore him.” “Wouldn’t you rather belong to him now?” “B’long to him now! I’s free, sah.” “Yes, but don’t you think you would rather belong to him still, and not have to take care of yourself?” “No, sah. I’s free.” “But now you have all the trouble of supporting yourself, buying your own clothes, making your bargains, getting your provisions, and the like. Don’t you think you would get along better if you still had Mr. May to do all this for you?” “No, sah. We’s git along heap better dis way. We’s free.”