Part 7 (1/2)

”Look a here, Ma.r.s.e Rooney, I been a readin' dat book yer gimme--”

”Well, that's good.”

”Yer say dat book's history?”

”Well, it's what we call fiction, but I think fiction's the very best history we can read. It may not have happened just that way but it's true all the same.”

”Well, ef hit nebber happened, I dunno 'bout dat,” Sam objected. ”I been suspicionin' fer a long time dat some o' dem things that Gulliver say nebber happen nohow.”

”You read it,” the teacher ordered.

”Ya.s.sah, I sho gwine ter read it, happen er no happen. Glory be ter G.o.d.

Just 'cause yer tells me, sah!”

CHAPTER VI

The next morning found Phil walking again between the white, clean rows of the quarter houses. He was always finding something to interest him.

Every yard had its gorgeous red autumn flowers. Some of them had roses in bloom. The walks from the gate to the door were edged with white-washed bricks or conch sh.e.l.ls. The conch sh.e.l.ls were souvenirs of summer outings at the seash.o.r.e.

In the corner of the back yard there was the tall pole on which were hung five or six dried gourds with tiny holes cut in the sides for the martins. And every gourd had its black family. The martins were the guardians of the servants' chicken yards. The hawks were numerous and the woods close to the quarters. Few chickens were lost by hawks. The martins circled the skies in battalions, watching, chattering, guarding, basking in the southern sun.

At noon the a.s.sembly bell rang at the end of the Broadway of the quarters. From every cottage, from field and stable, blacksmith shop, carpenter's shop, the house of the spinners, the weavers, the dairy, the negroes poured toward the shed beside the bell tower.

”What is it?” Phil asked of Custis.

”Sat.u.r.day noon. All work stops.”

”My Lord, it's been raining nearly all morning. The field hands haven't worked a lick all day. Do they stop, too?”

”It's the unwritten law of the South. We would no more think of working on Sat.u.r.day afternoon than on Sunday.”

”What are they gathering under that shed for?” Phil inquired.

Custis led him to the shed where Ike, the foreman, stood with Mrs. Lee beside a long table on which were piled the provisions for the week to follow.

The negroes laughed and chattered like a flock of blackbirds picking grain in a wheat field. To each head of a family was given six pounds of meat for each person. A father, mother and two children received twenty-four pounds. Their bread was never rationed. The barrel in each cottage was filled from the grist mill, a bag full at a time. They had their own garden and flocks of chickens. Sugar, coffee and mola.s.ses were given on the first of each month.

”Come right back here now all ob you!” Ike shouted, ”des ez quick ez yer put yo vittles away. De Missis gwine gib ye yo' winter close now, case she gwine ter Wes' Pint next week.”

The provisions were swept from the long table. Out of the storehouse came huge piles of clothing and blankets. Each package was marked with the owner's name.

To each pair, man and wife, or two children, was given a new wool blanket. This was, of course, added to the stock each house had already.

A woolen blanket was good for ten years' wear. Many a servant's house had a dozen blankets for each bed. Besides the blankets, to every woman with a baby was given a quilted comfort.

To each man, woman and child were allotted two complete woolen suits for the winter, a new pair of shoes and three pairs of stockings. In the spring two suits of cotton would be given for summer. The thrifty ones had their cedar chests piled with clothes. Many had not worn the suits given out a year ago.

The heads of large families trudged away with six or seven blankets, a comfort, and twenty suits of clothes. It sometimes took the father, mother and two of the children to carry the load.

But the most amazing thing which Phil saw was the sudden transformation of the shed into a market for the sale of slave produce to the mistress of Arlington.