“When Mars Bedford wan’ talkin’ his eyes jes’ ez sorf ez uh ’possum’s, but when he wuz serioussum an’ opened his mouf, da wan’ no apples in his eyes, nuffin but fire, an’ when he tole his favorite scout, Mars Torm, ter stay back, he jes’ tuck root on dat spot. “He wuz uh ve’y curisome man; fuh instinc’, he had uh swo’d made jes’ futto suit hissef. It wan’ quite ez long ez uh fence-rail, but mos’ nighly; you wudn’ think he wud cut blue coats haids orf but he wud. It’s so curisome—he wuz so gentle an’ he talk so sorf, but den ergin his eyes, when he on uh scout er charge, jes’ like uh fish-hawk’s. How-some-ebba, I once heah ole Mars Nickey say uh race hoss dat prances an’ bucks an’ goes ev’y which way at de pos’—jes’ like uh dug-out in rough watah—ain’ no race hoss; dey th’ow up deah tails befo’ dey go two miles. But de nice quiet ones like de fo-mile hosses Mars Matthew use ter own, when dey at de pos’ you’d s’pose dey habin’ deah pictur taken. Well, Mars Bedford wuz sho’ly uh fo’-miler in his ways, an’ he al’ays had his way, too. “Mrs. Sanson inwited Mars Torm ter meck huh house his home tell he git well; mo’n dat, she spressify huhsef dat she al’ays lubbed ter nuss Cornfederates. Den she look at Pigeon an’ me an’ say, ‘I kin teck good care ub you, too, an’ yo’ mule. Peter, Simon an’ Nancy is ve’y ole, so you kin holp ’em ter milk de cows, chu’n de butter an’ pick de strawberries. Young Marster, I stayed da fuh two weeks, until de watah fell in Black Creek. I got fat, so did Pigeon, an’ den I crossed de creek an’ jined Mars Bedford. “’Twuz jes’ erboutin harves’ time; Let meh people go; When Joshua led his hos’ divine; Let meh people go.” “Oh, go on, Uncle Ezzy.” “Well, in erboutin free monfs Mars Torm, de scout, jined us. He looked fat an’ slick, an’ Gen’l Forrest lubbed an’ ’spected him so he kissed him. He didn’ kiss me, but I wud uh kissed him.” Between you and me, kind reader, after greeting General Forrest, “Mars Torm” hurried to his humble hammock. His thoughts were more of “Black Creek” than the tented field. From a pocket in his gray jacket he pulled out and fondly kissed a daguerreotype. When he opened it a pressed rose leaf fell out. It may have been the rose leaf which a dear kind hand had placed between the pages she loved to read to him, and the mate to the one he had. He sank into his hammock, and the tranquil twilight saw him weeping, and then reciting: [Illustration: MARS TORM. (From a time-worn photograph.) His thoughts were more of “Black Creek” than the tented field. ]