Dat wus a almighty dark night, sho', and dese yere ole eyes aint wuf
shuks, but I's got a year like a sque'l, an' w'en I cotch de mummer o'
v'ices I knowed dat gang b'long on de far side o' de ribber. So I jes'
runs in de house an' wakes Marse Doke an' tells him: "Skin outer dis fo'
yo' life!" An' de Lo'd bress my soul! ef dat man didn' go right fru de
winder in his shir' tail an' break for to cross de mule patch! An' dem
twenty-free hunerd mules dey jes' t'nk it is de debble hese'f wid de
brandin' iron, an' dey bu'st outen dat patch like a yarthquake, an' pile
inter de upper ford road, an' flash down it five deep, an' it full o'
Con-fed'rates from en' to en'!...




THE WIDOWER TURMORE


The circumstances under which Joram Turmore became a widower have never
been popularly understood. I know them, naturally, for I am Joram
Turmore; and my wife, the late Elizabeth Mary Turmore, is by no means
ignorant of them; but although she doubtless relates them, yet they
remain a secret, for not a soul has ever believed her.

When I married Elizabeth Mary Johnin she was very wealthy, otherwise I
could hardly have afforded to marry, for I had not a cent, and Heaven
had not put into my heart any intention to earn one. I held the
Professorship of Cats in the University of Graymaulkin, and scholastic
pursuits had unfitted me for the heat and burden of business or labor.
Moreover, I could not forget that I was a Turmore--a member of a family
whose motto from the time of William of Normandy has been _Laborare est