“Well, we went out yander under dat Cherokee rose yer see by de fence dar, and laid low. We wuz skeer’d purty nigh ter death. Ever’thing wuz jes’ as quiet an’ still, ’cept Jake blusterin’ roun’ wid de pans in de cabin, when all ter wunce dat bird jes’ broke out, mos’ like a brass-band, right over our heads. I tell yer, Miss Annie, it made me feel creepy. Seem’d like hev’un wuz right over us, while dar wuz de bad place purty close by, ’cause Jake wuz a raisin’ a terrible roukus wid de pans try’nter find somp’in ter eat. “So, dat’s de way ’tis, Missus,” and she nodded her head meditatively, “when de deb’l is try’nter raise a roukus wid yer hearts an’ souls, de angels is right over yer singin’ all de time, ef we’ll be still an’ listen.” And she stopped in a thoughtful attitude. But her reverie was rudely broken up by such din of screaming and yelling as only half-starved African youngsters are capable of making. “What on de top side er creashun ails dem yunguns?” she exclaimed, as we both went to the door. There we saw Viney armed with a long dog-fennel, followed by the others similarly equipped, in a wild dash for a lanky black cat. We both laughed at the pursuit. But, suddenly, above their yells Aunt Jane caught the distress call of the mocking-bird. That was enough for her. She seized her battling stick and flew after them, coming quickly to where they were gathered in a fence corner. “Lemme in here, git erway niggers,” as she breathlessly tumbled two of them over one another, and with a terrific whack came down upon the fastened cat, who was still tenaciously gripping the dying bird. I stood transfixed, not realizing what had taken place, until I saw them returning to the house. Viney was dragging the lifeless body of the thief tied by his hind leg to her apron string, while the boys were meting out vengeance to him in no unstinted terms, slashing him vigorously with one hand, the other busily engaged holding up their disjointed pantaloons. In the lead was Aunt Jane. The little pile of grey feathers on the corner of her apron, resting tenderly on her hand, was all that was left of her “sassy little deb’l,” the beautiful mocking-bird. SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS JAMES RYDER RANDALL By Kate Alma Orgain As a rule all national airs have been composed rapidly, under the strong inspiration of some moment of intense and enthusiastic feeling, and their writers little dreamed at the time of the power and influence their passionate appeals would have. National lyrics play an important part in every country’s history. What has moved and held the army of France like “The Marseillaise Hymn?” Nothing rouses the Southern soldier like our glorious “Dixie,” and since the hour when the notes and words of “Maryland, My Maryland” first sounded on the air, the noble song has always started the pulse-beat higher and faster in every Southern heart.