“Listen, Marse Wash, dey’re comin’ back! Ole Joe’s runnin’ lak he’s skeered. Some dog mus’ be crowdin’ him? Yes, sir, it’s de Stinson fox, an’ he’s comin’ dis way. See, comin’ over de hill? Dat’s him! Look how he’s lopin’! He knows dat ole Joe ain’t arter no foolin’ dis night. “See, yonder’s de dogs! Dey’re travlin’ arter him. Look at dat pale red houn’! Dat’s Sly, an’ she’s steppin’ lak de groun’ wuz hot! She ain’t givin’ ole Joe time to open his mouf wide. I knowed some dog wuz pushin’ him. “Here dey come down to de branch! Ain’t dey movin’? Dey’re goin’ to de Hartis woods, an’ on toads Providence church. But ain’t dey flyin’? I dis kin hear dem!” As the dogs went out of hearing toward the east the old hunter lay back and hushed his tongue. He was running the race that he had run many times before. “Listen, Marse Wash, I hear ’em crossin’ de Providence road, comin’ back. Dey’re drivin’ to kill ole Stinson now. I ’clar’ fo’ de Lawd I never heered dat Joe run lak he’s runnin’ dis night. He’s almos’ flyin’. “But hush, listen, don’t you hear dat ‘Whoo-ark, whoo-ark, whoo-ark’ in dere? Dat’s Sly, an’ she sho’ is shovin’ dat fox an’ crowdin’ Joe. “Hear dat? She’s crossin’ de big hill fust. “Dey’re turnin’! He’s makin’ fur de Big Rock, but he ain’t gut time to make it. “Listen, Marse Wash, dat Georgy dog’s ’bout to outdo ole Joe! She’s comin’ lak de wind. I don’t hear ole Joe. He won’t bark ef he gits behind. He mus’ be tryin’ to head off dat Sly bitch. “Look! Yon dey go ’cross de cotton fiel’ an’ Joe an’ Sly is side to side. “Whoopee, ain’t dey goin’? Ole Joe sho’ is doin’ about, but Sly’s on his heels. “Dey’s goin’ to ketch dat fox. Git up Sam an’ less see ’em kill him! Go on! Come on, Marse Wash!” For the first time during the night the old darkey became very much excited and jumped and surged in the bed. Those near tried to calm him. But the race was almost over. Uncle Ben’s summons had come. The angel of death was at the door. “Look, Marse Wash, ole Joe’s in de lead. He sees dat fox an’ he’s done lef’ Sly. He’s runnin’ fur blood. “See him! Look! Look! Ole Stinson Fiel’s ’bout to git to de thicket! See, he can’t make it! Joe’s grabbin’ at him! Look! Look!” That was all. Uncle Ben was giving up the ghost. Death came on him. The final summons had arrived. As old Joe bore down the fox the faithful servant of the Morrow family passed away. As the end drew nigh Dr. Morrow and Dr. Smith and other friends who had assembled around the bed stood near and watched the light go out. Everything around was still. Death was easy. The remains were buried in the Morrow family’s private burial grounds. Ben was the last of the old slave stock. In his delirium he had called back his old master, the old horses and the old hounds, and died happy in the delusion. [Illustration: _Aunt Matt._] FORTY ACRES AND A MULE