Ef Romp had bin ub houn’ blood, stid ub cur, He’d know’d de difference in de scent ub fur. So arfter dis I wants uh thorrybred; When dey speaks up’n uh tree you ain’ misled. But if I steals de finis’ thorrybred Da ain’ no use ub praisin’ him ter Fred— He’s jined de chuch. Dat yaller Thormas cat He tho’t uh ghose is all de cause ub dat. I ’gin ter think mehsef dat cat uh witch, Fuh in de swamp ef it is dark ez pitch, An he cum out! de branch it looks so bright De brabest niggah’s obercome wid fright. I ’spises cats, an’ fuh dem hab no use, But it’s mos’ time I’d ended wid uh buse, Fuh when I think erboutin’ “Romps mustake” Dis haid ub mine cummences soon ter ache. LITTLE BILLY’S PUMPKIN. Hayland Meadow was some ten miles in length, and on the upper half, used for growing timothy and for grazing, here and there stood aristocratic-looking trees—poplar, black-walnut, majestic oaks, imposing and graceful elms. The lower half was thickly wooded with smaller trees of many varieties, among which flourished the persimmon. Nature had with generous hands festooned many of the trees with wild grapevines, and when these were in bloom and twilight dews fell upon their blossoms, they filled that meadow with a delicious fragrance, sweet enough for Eden; every dewdrop in the dell seemed perfumed. Through this vale, over mossy stones and snowy pebbles, chattered and meandered a crystal creek which joined other streams and emptied at Hayland marsh into Miles River. The woodcock nested there, and in warm June days dozed under the shade of the fine old trees; and there the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that rocked in the wind. The tranquilness of the place was never disturbed save by the canticles of song birds and the almost nightly baying of some coon dog, for until of late the darkies never thought of going anywhere else to put up coons or ’possums than “Haylan’” Branch, as they called it. Little Billy was not pious, and, if he knew his prayers, never said them. He doted on all sorts of sports, and, though a poor shot, entered all the turkey-shooting contests Thanksgiving Day. He chewed the best tobacco, danced with the dancers, played the banjo and jewsharp, always had a jug of molasses, a pair of gum boots, fiddle-strings and fiddle—all purchased with his coon, ’possum and muskrat money. Scipio Jones’ experience had pretty well frightened off Miles River Neck hunters (see “Romp’s Mustake”), but of late darkies from Queen Anne’s and Caroline Counties had been hunting Hayland Branch, and Billy became jealous, wanting to be the only hunter, and sought to get his Mars Pinckney, who owned the meadow, to help him; and his success was more than he anticipated.