"Wat's dat you gwine sho' me, boy? I reckon I'se done seed mo' curus things den you in my lifetime." I looked up defiantly. Between the aristocratic, if fallen, negro and myself there was all the instinctive antagonism that existed in the Virginia of that period between the "quality" and the "poor white trash." "If you don't lemme alone you'll see mo'n you wanter." "Whew! I reckon you gwine tu'n out sump'im' moughty outlandish, boy. I'se a-lookin' wid all my eyes an I cyarn see nuttin' at all." "Wait till I'm bigger an' you'll see it," I answered. "I'se sho'ly gwine ter wait, caze ef'n hits mo' curus den you is en dat ar windin' sheet, hit's a sight dat I'se erbleeged ter lay eyes on. Wat's yo' name, suh?" he enquired, with a mocking salute. "I am Ben Starr," I replied promptly, "an' if you wait till I get bigger, I'll bus' you open." "Hi! hi! wat you wanter bus' me open fur, boy? Is you got a pa?" "He's Thomas Starr, an' he cuts lambs and doves on tombstones. I've seen 'em, an' I'm goin' to learn to cut 'em, too, when I grow up. I like lambs." The door behind me opened suddenly without warning, and as I scrambled from the doorstep, my enemy, the merry driver, backed his creaking vehicle to the sidewalk across which the slow procession of mourners filed. A minute later I was caught up by my mother's hand, and borne into a carriage, where I sat tightly wedged between two sombre females. "So you've brought yo' little boy along, Mrs. Starr," remarked a third from the opposite seat, in an aggressive voice. "Yes, he had a cold an' I thought the air might do him good," replied my mother with her society manner. "Wall, I've nine an' not one of 'em has ever been to a funeral," returned the questioner. "I've al'ays been set dead against 'em for children, ain't you, Mrs. Boxley?" Mrs. Boxley, a placid elderly woman, who had already begun to doze in her corner, opened her eyes and smiled on me in a pleasant and friendly way. "To tell the truth I ain't never been able really to enjoy a child's funeral," she replied. "I'm sure we're all mighty glad to have him along, Mrs. Starr," observed the fourth woman, who was soft and peaceable and very fat. "He's a fine, strong boy now, ain't he, ma'am?" "Middlin' strong. I hope he ain't crowdin' you. Edge closer to me, Benjy." I edged closer until her harsh bombazine sleeve seemed to scratch the skin from my cheek. Mrs. Boxley had dozed again, and sinking lower on the seat, I had just prepared myself to follow her example, when a change in the conversation brought my wandering wits instantly together, and I sat bolt upright while my eyes remained fixed on the small, straggling houses we were passing.