Phil was a Virginian--and a gentleman in his way--and a slave, though I doubt if he ever suspected his gentility, or felt his bondage as a burden in the least. He had no aspirations for freedom or for anything else, I think, except jollity and comfort. I do not say that this was well, but it was a fact. My acquaintance with Phil began when I was a half-grown boy. Until that time I had lived in a free state, so that when I had returned to the land of my fathers, and become an inmate of the old family mansion in one of the south-side counties of Virginia, the plantation negro was a fresh and very interesting study to me. On the morning after my arrival, as I lay in the antique carved bed assigned to me, wondering at the quaint picturesqueness of my surroundings, and the delightful strangeness of the life which I was now in contact with for the first time, a weird, musical sound, of singular power and marvellous sweetness, floated through the open dormer windows, borne upon the breath of such a June morning as I had never before seen. I listened, but could make nothing of it by guessing. It was music, certainly, at least a “concord of sweet sounds.” It rose and fell like the ground swell of the sea, and was as full of melody and sweetness as is the song of birds, but it was as destitute as they of anything like a tune. It began nowhere, and went nowhither. I had no memory of anything with which to compare it, and could conceive of no throat or instrument capable of producing such a sound. On the great piazza below, at the front of the house, sat the master of the mansion. Of him I straightway made inquiry. “What is that?” I asked curiously. “Phil,” answered my uncle. “And who is ‘Phil,’ and what on earth is he doing, and especially how is he doing it?” “He is calling the hogs, and you may be sure he is doing it well. If you’ll walk up to that skirt of woods, you can put your other questions to him in person. He is not shy or difficult of approach. Introduce yourself--be sure to tell him whose son you are.” My uncle’s face wore an amused smile as I walked away. He could imagine the sequel. In the edge of the timber stood a tall, broad-shouldered, brawny negro man. He was singularly ugly, but with a countenance so full of good humor that I was irresistibly attracted by it from the first. At his feet stood great baskets of corn, and around him were gathered a hundred or more swine, busily eating the breakfast he was dispensing. As I approached, his hat--what there was of it--was doffed. I was greeted with a fabulous bow, apparently meant to be half a tribute of respect, and half a bit of buffoonery, indulged in for my amusement or his own. “Good mawnin’, young mastah. I hope I see you well dis mawnin’.” “Thank you, I’m very well,” I replied. “You’re Phil, I suppose?” “You’re right, fo’ dis wunst, young mastah. Ise Phil toe be sho’. Ax der hawgs--dey done know me.” “Well, Phil, I’m glad to make your acquaintance. I’m your mas’ Jo’s son.”