Part 3 (2/2)
They pa.s.sed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt.
Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged him.
”It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?”
”Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry.”
They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its yard of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood enough to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced babies were playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers watched them from the doors.
Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.
”What is it?” Custis asked.
”You'll pardon my asking it, old boy, but are these black folks married?”
The Southern boy laughed heartily.
”I should say so. A negro wedding is one of the joys of a plantation boy's life.”
”But isn't it awful when they're separated?”
”They're not separated.”
”Never?”
”Not on this plantation. Nor on any estate whose master and mistress are our friends. It's not done in our set.”
”You keep them when they're old, lazy and worthless?”
”If they're married, yes. It's a luxury we never deny ourselves, this softening of the rigor of the slave regime. It's not business. But it's the custom of the country. To separate a husband and wife is an unheard-of thing among our people.”
The thing that impressed the Westerner in those white rows of little homes was the order and quiet of it all. Every yard was swept clean.
There was nowhere a trace of filth or disease-breeding refuse. And birds were singing in the bushes beside these slave cottages as sweetly as they sang for the master and mistress in the pillared mansion on the hill. They pa.s.sed the stables and paused to watch a dozen colts playing in the inclosure. Beyond the stable under the shadows of great oaks was the dog kennel. A pack of fox hounds rushed to the gate with loud welcome to their young master. He stooped to stroke each head and call each dog's name. A wagging tail responded briskly to every greeting. In another division of the kennel romped a dozen bird-dogs, pointers and setters. The puppies were nearly grown and eager for the fields. They climbed over Custis in yelping puppy joy that refused all rebuffs.
Phil looked in vain for the bloodhounds. He was afraid to ask about them lest he offend his host. Custis had never seen a bloodhound and could not guess the question back of his schoolmate's silence.
Sam entered the inclosure with breakfast for the dogs.
Phil couldn't keep his eyes off the sunlit, ebony face. His smile was contagious. His voice was music.
The Westerner couldn't resist the temptation to draw him out.
”You were certainly dressed up last night, Sam!”
”Yer lak dat suit I had on, sah?”
”It was a great combination.”
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