“Of course it is right for you to think about politics,” replied Jesse, “and to talk about politics, and to vote about politics, but you know “_what-sa-ever_ ye do—whether ye eat, or drink, or _what-sa-ever_ ye do, you must be a thinking of the glory of the Laud.” “We wouldn’t have no trouble in carrying this next election if it wasn’t for these leading radicals,” said the Deacon, in an angry mood, which had not been improved by Uncle Jesse’s reproof. “There is not more than one in a thousand of the niggers that knows how to read and write, but is an office-seeker; but I tell yo’, Jesse, every one of ’em will be killed!” A silence ensued, during which Deacon Atwood repeatedly thrust his heel into the soft soil, and turning the toe of his boot about, as though crushing some reptile, he made a row of circular depressions along the side of a cotton hill. Pausing in his work, and pointing at the busy, great foot, Mr. Roome (for that was Uncle Jesse’s name) remarked, with a broad smile, “Deacon Atwood, them is nice looking little places you’re making there, but allow me to tell you that I reckon your wife won’t like the looks o’ that black streak you’r making on the bottom of that leg o’ them light-colored trousers o’ yourn.” Vexed beyond control that he could not disturb the equanimity of the colored man, the irate Deacon now squared himself about, and, thrusting both his itching fists deep into the pockets of the abused articles of his apparel, he looked fiercely into the face of the negro, saying: “Maybe you don’t believe me, but it is true, and all settled; and I’ll bet you that Elly and Watta and Kanrasp will be killed before another ’lection, and I can give you the names of twenty more that will be killed, and among them is ‘Old Bald-head’” (the Governor). A shadow passed quickly across the dusky face, and a set of fine teeth were firmly set together for a moment. But that soon passed, and the face wore its usual expression: “What are you going to do with President Grant and his soldiers?” “Oh, all the No’th is on our side,” was the prompt response. “And if it a’n’t, we don’t care for Grant nor his soldiers. I carried a gun once, and I can again.” The farmer had completed his work, and, folding his arms, he now confronted his “Boss,” and spoke slowly and impressively. “Mind, now, what you’re doing, Deacon, for the United States is _mighty strong_. You recollect once you had two Presidents here, and it cost a long and bloody war, and the country ha’n’t got over it yet.” “Yes, sir, but the No’th is on our side now, I tell yo’, and we shall be able to carry our point.”