"Now, look at de Injuns." [Presenting the subject in another light.] "Dey has der freedom, kin do what dey please, kin go whar dey please, an' what do dey do? Don't do nothin' but hunt an' fish an' fight. Whar do dey go? W'y, jes' a-rippin' an' tearin' all ober da worl', 'sturbin' peacable people, keepin' dem mizzible an' onsituwated. So you see, de Injun, dough he has his freedom, ain't nothin' arter all but a red varmint. An' fur why? Beca'se he hain't got l'arnin' fur to tell him what to do wid his freedom, dat's why. So dey needs somebody to tell 'em what to do an' make 'em do it. Yes, an' dar's some white folks, too, who hain't got l'arnin' an' don't know much better what to do wid dare freedom dan Injuns an' free niggers, dough dey don't think so demselves, an' would knock a nigger down fur sayin' it. An' dem's my 'pinions on dat p'int. "An' Miss Jemimy" [here Burl lowered his voice and looked at his mistress with solemn earnestness], "have you forgot how I promised Mars Bushrod I'd do what I could fur his wife an' pore little boy? All a pore nigger could fur white folks in dat way, an' wouldn't neber stop a-doin' it? An' s'posin' ef I was ter leabe 'em now, what would dey do? Who-o-o'd----" Here he choked up and broke down, and clapping his coon-skin cap on his head and pulling it down over his eyes, Burl turned abruptly and walked hurriedly away. Ten minutes after, mounted on his plow-horse, and with the big round tears playing at leap-frog down his face, he was riding along the bridle-path through the woods on his way to the corn-field, singing at the top of his huge, melodious voice: "Squirly is a pretty bird." And that morning the sylvan wilds were kept resounding with the heart-easing, blithesome music which bespoke the thankfulness and the gladness of the singer's heart. It was the happiest morning he had ever known in all his life, and yet, despite an unaccountable accident of birth that had brought into the world so noble a soul with an ebony hide and fleecy head, the poor fellow had known a thousand mornings nearly as happy. He was having his reward. But at about eleven o'clock the singing suddenly ceased--so suddenly, indeed, that any one who might have been listening would have said, "Assuredly something unusual has happened to Burlman Reynolds; something has struck him--perhaps an Indian bullet."