I turned to the ledger, and found that it showed what the black said to be true--corn and cotton had made a handsome profit, but turpentine had 'paid a loss.' 'That is because your trees are old, and now yield scarcely anything but scrape,'[1] I said. 'Yas, sar, and 'case dey am so thin like, sense we cleaned out de pore ones, dat it take a hand long time to git 'round 'mong 'em.' 'Why not drop turpentine, and cut shingles from the swamp? You've a fortune in those cypress trees.' 'My negroes are not accustomed to swamp work--it would kill them,' replied Preston. 'Mr. Kirke,' said Joe,--'you'll take no 'fence, master Robert, if I says dis?' 'No, go on,' said his master. 'De ting am right in a nutshell, an' jess so clar as apple jack: we owes a heap; we'se gittin' inter debt deeper an' deeper ebery yar; we lose money workin' de ole trees; we hain't got no new ones; an', dar's no use to talk,--master Robert _won't_ put de hands inter de swamp. What, den, shill we do?' Avoiding the darky's question, I said: 'I never before understood why slavery is so clamorous for new fields. I see now--it can draw support only from the virgin soil. It exhausts an old country: like the locusts of Egypt, it blasts the very face of the earth!' 'That is true,' replied Preston; 'but Joe has stated the case correctly, _What shall we do?_' 'One of two things. Sell your plantation and negroes, or take your hands to a new section, where you can raise virgin turpentine.'[2] 'I cannot sell my negroes--they were all raised with me; and the plantation--it was my ancestors', over a hundred years ago. I would move the hands to a new section, but I have not the means to buy land.' 'Ay, dar's de rub, as Shakspeare say,' said Joe, with a pleasant humor, intended, I thought, to cheer his master, whose face was clouding over with grave thought; 'dat's de ting dat spile de 'gestion ob de king; and in him sleep, such dreams do come ob suffin' better'n dis, some undiscobered country, whar de virgin trees weep tears so white as crystal, and turn to gole de moment dey'm barrled up, dat--' 'Come, Joe, that'll do,' said his master, laughing; 'don't give us any more, or you'll murder _us_, as well as Shakspeare.' 'You don't 'preciate dat great man, master Robert,' rejoined Joe, also laughing. 'No, I don't--not just now.' 'If you could satisfy your outside creditors that things were likely to go better with you in future, could you put off the payment of the three thousand dollars for a time?' I asked. 'I reckon I could--nearly all of it,' replied Preston.