Uncle ’Jah added to his dignities and honors the fact of having been born free. The story ran, that his mother was a princess in her own country, having been stolen by traders at an early age, and in the home of her adoption her faithfulness and tender care won the sympathy of her invalid mistress, who was pleased to give her freedom as a reward. She had never left the plantation, for a humble romance followed, and the free woman became the wife of a slave. By “Ole Miss’s” will in the olden time her children were to be free from their birth, and Abijah, the seventh son of the seventh son, though living, as his father had done, on the plantation, was free to come and go, and received wages for his labor when he chose to work. But Abijah was gathered to his fathers long ago, and many were the lamentations when he passed away. As the passing of a dusky Mohammed, marvels were expected, and great were the wonders and happenings on his burial night, for, like his aforesaid predecessor, he planned his own funeral, and he decreed that the burial should occur at night. It was said that everything had come to him in the dark of the moon; it was dark when he was born, and dark when he died; so they buried him in the midst of the tall bracken, whose swaying plumes cast weird and grotesque shadows by the light of the flickering pine torches. The exhorters were holding their services at the meeting-ground, and would not officiate, as they deemed the burial unholy; but the mass of negroes, who knew the work of Abijah, were afraid that his ghost would walk, and attended for the laying of his spirit; and all but the torch-bearers prostrated themselves low upon the ground, while the hoodoos waved their arms, as the coffin was lowered, and forbade the spirit’s return to earthly habitations; then bitter herbs and Abijah’s drinking-cup were thrown in before the grave was filled. * * * * * As has been said, the passing of Abijah happened many years ago, and now in the third and fourth generations his fame had grown even to that of a dusky god. So there were not wanting those who, through the mists of time and forgetfulness, attributed to him supernatural powers, a fearless handling of the forces of good and evil, even a personal exorcism of the devil—that old-fashioned devil who donned such familiar forms upon occasion. Of course such a devil is entirely out of date, but in that long ago there was a certain little maid to whom these devil stories, forbidden fruit though they were, gave the most unalloyed delight. They were told at night when the trundle-bed was rolled out and the little toes were toasting by the fire, and sometimes even, it is to be feared, the “Now I lay me” was rather hastily said, that the story might be resumed; later, perhaps, an anxious mother wondered why the little one tossed so restlessly, but every genuine child has been duly “scared to death once upon a time,” and so had the little maid.