and bottles and sponges. In Indian file we were led by Sam around the
hill, up a steep path that was bordered by coral-strung buck-bushes and
rasping blackberry brush, and to his little farm-house perched on a
plateau almost up to the top of the hill. It was long and low, with a
wide red roof that seemed to hover in the whitewashed walls and green
shutters; while white smoke from an old gray-rock, mud-daubed chimney
melted away among the tree-tops into the lavender of the coming day. It
looked like a great brooding white hen setting in a nest of radiant
woods, and I felt like a little cold chicken as Sam led the way through
the low, wide door for me to creep under the sheltering wings. In about
two seconds we were all sheltered in complete comfort. At a huge fire
that was a great glow of oak coals old Mammy Kitty, who had
superintended Sam's birth and childhood, as well as "neighbored" mine,
was gently stirring a mixture that smelled like the kind of breakfast
nectar they must have in heaven, while she also balanced a steaming
coffee-pot on a pair of crossed green sticks at one corner of the
chimney. In the ashes I could see little mounds which I afterward found
to be flaky, nutty com-pones, and I flew to kneel at her side with my
head on her gaudy neckerchief.

"Dah, dah, dah, child," she crooned, as she smiled a queer, loving, old
smile that showed me how glad she was to see me, but never another word
did she utter. I almost never remember hearing Mammy say an articulate
word; but all children and those grown up who have any child left in
their hearts can understand her croon. It is cradle music--to the
initiated.

"Mammy's rheumatism is mighty bad, but she can still shake up corn ash
cake and chicken hash with the best," said Sam, coming over to warm his
hands and tower above us, while Byrd volunteered to lead Dr. Chubb out