ON THE PLANTATION A Story Of A Georgia Boy's Adventures During The War By Joel Chandler Harris Author Of Uncle Remus With Twenty-Three Illustrations By E. W. Kemble New York D. Appleton And Company 1892 JOSEPH ADDISON TURNER LAWYER, EDITOR, SCHOLAR, PLANTER, AND PHILANTHROPIST THIS MIXTURE OF FACT AND FICTION IS INSCRIBED INTRODUCTORY NOTE. Some of my friends who have read in serial form the chronicles that follow profess to find in them something more than an autobiographical touch. Be it so. It would indeed be difficult to invest the commonplace character and adventures of Joe Maxwell with the vitality that belongs to fiction. Nevertheless, the lad himself, and the events which are herein described, seem to have been born of a dream. That which is fiction pure and simple in these pages bears to me the stamp of truth, and that which is true reads like a clumsy invention. In this matter it is not for me to prompt the reader. He must sift the fact from the fiction and label it to suit himself. J. C. H. ON THE PLANTATION. CHAPTER I--JOE MAXWELL MAKES A START The post-office in the middle Georgia village of Hillsborough used to be a queer little place, whatever it is now. It was fitted up in a cellar; and the postmaster, who was an enterprising gentleman from Connecticut, had arranged matters so that those who went after their letters and papers could at the same time get their grocery supplies. Over against the wall on one side was a faded green sofa. It was not an inviting seat, for in some places the springs peeped through, and one of its legs was broken, giving it a suspicious tilt against the wall. But a certain little boy found one corner of the rickety old sofa a very comfortable place, and he used to curl up there nearly every day, reading such stray newspapers as he could lay hands on, and watching the people come and go. To the little boy the stock of goods displayed for sale was as curious in its variety as the people who called day after day for the letters that came or that failed to come. To some dainty persons the mingled odor of cheese, cam-phene, and mackerel would have been disagreeable; but Joe Maxwell--that was the name of the little boy--had a healthy disposition and a strong stomach, and he thought the queer little post-office was one of the pleasantest places in the world. A partition of woodwork and wire netting cut off the post-office and the little stock of groceries from the public at large, but outside of that was an area where a good many people could stand and wait for their letters. In one corner of this area was the rickety green sofa, and round about were chairs and boxes and barrels on which tired people could rest themselves.