The queer little turnout, which would have been a spectacle in any part of the northern states, though common enough in the southern, crept slowly up the steep hill in the rear of the village, where buildings of curious and indescribable styles were scattered without order or taste, and few indications of thrift. Stopping on the outskirts of the town, and before a small cabin built of one thickness of rough boards, the vertical cracks between which would nearly receive the fingers of an adult, and the windows of which, without sash or glazing, were closed only by clumsy wooden shutters—the usual style of cabin inhabited by the southern negro—Dan leaped from his vehicle, and entering, sniffed and looked about searchingly, till a tall, angular mulatto woman entered from the back door with an armful of wood. “Any suppah yet, Mira?” “No, sah. Yo’ suppah ha’n’t ready yit, but I’s cookin’ it. I’s mighty tired. I’s done done all dat whole big cotton field.” “Good, chile! good, chile!” said the husband, approaching and attempting to kiss her as she stooped to replenish the open fire. No sooner had his breath touched her face than she turned, with a stick of wood in one hand, and confronted him, while the smoke and flame leaped out in alarming proximity to her dress. “See here now, yo’ Dan; yo’ been drinkin’ gin,” fixing her dark eyes reprovingly upon his silly face. “Dat’s de way yo’ been spendin’ yo’ money.” “Mira Pipsie, yo’s de smartest woman in de whole worl’. Yo’s got ’em zackly, I reckon” (wriggling and curveting about the room and back to her side again). “I nebber boughtened me no finery o’ no kind; no new bonnet, nor nuffin. Yo’ buys what yo’ wants, an’ so does I.” “Yes; but yo’ comes home an’ wants suppah, an’ it’s de cotton o’ my raisin’ as buys yo’ suppah.” “Yah! yah! yah! I’s a lucky dog, shor!” and he executed a jig followed by a double shuffle, knocking his heels upon the bare floor with what vigor he could command, and at the same time improvising as follows: “I’s de smartest little wife Ebber seen in all yo’ life; She marks her cotton-bag Wid a little calico rag, An’ gits de biggis’ price, An’ as slick as any mice She smiles, an’ bows, an’ flies aroun’, An’ totes her cotton off to town. Home she comes, an’ O my! See de new bonnet! _Oh, my eye!_ Away to church she sing an’ pray, Hallelujah! look dis way! Dina Duncan’s in de shade, Mira beats all on dress parade. But jes’ see Dina’s _bran new shawl_! Can’t heah no mo’ preachin’ af’er all. Elder, I’m gone nex’ Sunday sho’, Can’t wear dis here ole shawl o’ mine no mo’!”