Among themselves they speak the Tarkar language. Their English is very broken and is not always intelligible even to those who have lived among them for many years. It has more the sound of the dialect spoken by Italians than that spoken by the negroes. They make almost constant use of the “a” sound as a terminal--looka, pulla, worka, etc. Their sentences are short and vivid. The few words of old Gumpa, “My people sold me and your people bought me,” accompanied by his expression, told his whole history. They are extremely clean both about their persons and their homes, and one of their strongest objections to the average American negro is uncleanliness. Abaché parts her hair in the middle and combs it neatly back. She uses face powder, because it is refreshing and leaves a cleanly feeling. The other women are very old and feeble, except Kanko who, though old, works as a man. Her especial occupation is the breeding and raising of a fine strain of hogs. The Tarkars are very considerate of each other, and their intercourse is marked by kindness, charity, and harmony. [Illustration: Drawn by Emma Roche. Charlee, Head of the Tarkars.] In strong contrast to the Tarkars is old Zooma, who is possibly the last Tarkbar. Rendered almost helpless by a century and more of years and many pounds of superfluous flesh, she sits for the most part silent and brooding in her squalid hut. If near the door or window there are no softening shadows, and the light reveals all her fat, brutal old ugliness--an ugliness, accentuated by disfiguring tribal marks--three deep gashes meeting at the bridge of the nose, and running diagonally across each cheek. Her underlip hangs away as if it had been subjected in her native land to some kind of African beautifying process. Her hair is white and the skin of her hands and feet wrinkled, resembling in texture that of an elephant, and bearing the curious gray color seen in the complexions of very old negroes. It is almost impossible to understand her broken phrases, but a daughter acts as interpreter. Brooding, she is pathetic; aroused and speaking of home she is tragic. She has in common with the Tarkars the same pitiful history and the same despair, without their resignation. For each and all, Heaven could hold no promise so rapturous as just one last vision of home. Such a vision that comes as they sit together, which bows their old heads, lays silent fingers upon their lips, and speaks to their aching hearts of perpetual summer, fertile lands, abundance of fruit--of youth, plenty, and peace--their Land of Long Ago. CHAPTER X IMPRESSIONS OF ALABAMA IN 1846[26]