flannel shirts and socks, which at any rate were faithfully immersed in suds, and hung up to dry under our eyes. The laundry was an army tent, pitched at the back of the Asylum, where Jeff spent nearly all his time when not under orders, and generally eating an apple, of which there was always a sack, a present from some ranche-owner, or brought over from the garden, lying about, and open to mankind at large. I never could find out whether he could read. One evening he came up proudly to ask whether his mail had come, and sure enough when the mail arrived there was a post-card, which he claimed. We thought he would ask one of us to read it for him, but were disappointed. He had a habit of crooning over and over again all day some scrap of a song. One of these excited my curiosity exceedingly, but I never succeeded in getting more than two lines out of him-- Oh my! oh my! I’ve got a hundred dollars in a mine! One had a crave to hear what came of those 100 dollars. It seems it is so almost universally. The nearest approach to a complete negro ditty which I have been able to strike is one which the Texan gives, with a wonderful roll of the word “chariot,” which cannot be written. It runs:-- The Debbie he chase me round a stump, Gwine for to carry me home; He catch me most at ebery jump, Gwine for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chay-o-t, Gwine for to carry me home. The Debbie he make one grab at me, Gwine, etc., He missed me, and my soul goed free, Gwine, etc. Swing low, etc. Oh! won’t we have a gay old time, Gwine, etc. A eatin’ up o’ honey, and a drinkin’ up o’ wine. Gwine, etc. Swing low, etc.