“Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer, Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer, Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer. Ole--marster’s--gone--away!” The last line was a wail; but the first lines were full of a devil-may-care music, which made some of the women drop their bundles of wheat, and, picking up their striped cotton skirts, they danced a breakdown nimbly. A dozen little negro boys carried buckets of water about the field to refresh the thirsty harvesters, and one negro girl, with her arms folded and a great pail on her head of whisky and water with mint floating around in it, was vociferously greeted whenever she appeared, and a drink from the gourd in the pail invariably caused a fresh outburst of song. Hot and bright as the fields were, it was not too hot and bright for these merry labourers. But there was a stretch of coolness and of shade on the edge of the woods where the dew still sparkled upon the blackberry-bushes and the grass and undergrowth. And in a shady place under a hawthorn bush sat a black-eyed little boy with a dog across his knees. They had for company a Latin book, which the boy made a lazy pretence of studying, wearing all the time a sulky scowl. But when he found that he could put the book to a better use than studying, by propping the dog’s head upon it so as to bring the tawny, intelligent eyes upon a level with his own, the scowl cleared away. His face, then, though full of archness and sweetness, was not altogether happy. He gazed into the dog’s eyes wistfully, for, although many people gazed upon him kindly, no creature in the wide world ever gazed upon him so affectionately as this one poor brute of a dog. Presently, while lost in a sort of dream, listening to the song of the reapers as it melted away in the distance, and following up pretty, idle fancies that danced before him like white butterflies in the sun, he heard a crashing behind him of a burly figure making its way through the leaves and grass, and an ungainly man, past middle age, and blear-eyed and snuffy, appeared before him. In the pure, fresh morning light he looked coarser, more dissipated than could be imagined; but when his voice rang out, not even the wood bird’s note put it to shame--it was so clear, so rich, so sweet. That voice was the one charm left to him. “Well, Lewis, my lad,” he cried out, “how are you and my old friend Horatius Flaccus getting on this deuced fine morning? Drat the dog--you always have him about.” “You shouldn’t drat him, Mr. Bulstrode,” answered Lewis, “because old Service likes Latin better than I do. He has scarcely blinked since I put the book in his paw.” “Dogs do like Latin,” answered Bulstrode, with a wink; “let me show you, sir.” Lewis burst out laughing at the idea that dogs had any taste for the classics; and the dog, withdrawing his head, showed his teeth in a snarl.