To these little folks, who never pored dreamily over enchanting fairy tales, Denis Hotel was a veritable fairy palace inhabited by choice fairies from the dim and shadowy Northland, whose pockets contained a never failing supply of gold. This latter was almost an article of faith among the youthful colored population of K., and developed a very large eye for business. The roads swarmed with colored urchins desirous of selling various wares. One class of infants had an inexhaustible supply of gourds which they offered at remarkably low rates to the “Yankee” ladies. Another class of juveniles was of a geological turn, and enough arrow-heads and other Indian “remains” were offered for sale to stock several national museums. Then, when all else failed, there were the sweet wild flowers which seemed softly to plead for the dark little fingers which had lovingly brought them forth into the light. General Grant was one of the most indefatigable and successful of the little merchants, as was befitting the namesake of a great General. Intelligence beamed from the General’s dark face, and there was no resisting the mute appeal of his large, lustrous eyes. “What, more flowers!” we exclaimed, one day, “and jessamine, too! five cents? Oh, yes, we’ll take them. Really, General, you must be growing rich.” “I does right smart, thank you,” with a smile and a bow, the graceful native politeness more than atoning for the defective speech. “We rejoice in your success, General,” chimed in Mr. Brown. “Two or three little rascals have tried to make us believe that their pennies all went straight into the contribution box. It’s likely we should believe such nonsense! Now we would just like to know what you do with your money. Buy candy, I’ll be bound.” The large eyes grew a trifle larger as their little owner unflinchingly encountered Mr. Brown’s steadfast gaze. “We chillens are mighty fond of candy,” he said, “and it’s seldom we get a bit. I did buy some candy once for the young uns, but the rest has done gone for homespun.” “What do you do with homespun?” “Why, mammy makes dresses for the girls. Sally looked mighty peart last night when she put on her new dress, and didn’t she dance ’round though,” and the kind eyes grew moist at the recollection. “Then you don’t put money in the contribution box?” Mr. Brown continued. “We put a cent in ‘most every Sunday. But we get our Sunday-school money ‘knocking up Jerusalem.’” “The dickens!” exclaimed Mr. Brown, quite forgetting himself, “and how do you ‘knock up Jerusalem’?” “‘Knocking up Jerusalem’ is a song, sir,” our little hero respectfully replied; “and we shall be right proud to sing it to you sometime if you’ll come to the cabin. And you ain’t to give us anything, neither.” “We’ll come,” said Mr. Brown. “We want to see Sally’s new gown, and I wouldn’t fail to hear ‘Knocking up Jerusalem.’”