It being "ration day," we must describe the serving, that being an
interesting phase of plantation life. Negroes have gathered into
motley groups around two weatherbeaten store-houses--the overseer
has retired to his apartment-when they wait the signal from the head
driver, who figures as master of ceremonies. One sings:---"Jim Crack
corn, an' I don't care, Fo'h mas'r's gone away! way! way!" Another
is croaking over the time he saved on his task, a third is trying to
play a trick with the driver (come the possum over him), and a third
unfolds the scheme by which the extra for whiskey and molasses was
raised. Presenting a sable pot pourri, they jibber and croak among
themselves, laugh and whistle, go through the antics of the
"break-down" dance, make the very air echo with the music of their
incomprehensible jargon. We are well nigh deafened by it, and yet it
excites our joy. We are amused and instructed; we laugh because they
laugh, our feelings vibrate with theirs, their quaint humour forces
itself into our very soul, and our sympathy glows with their happy
anticipations. The philosophy of their jargon is catching to our
senses; we listen that we may know their natures, and learn good
from their simplicity. He is a strange mortal who cannot learn
something from a fool!

The happy moment has arrived: "Ho, boys!" is sounded,-the doors
open, the negroes stop their antics and their jargon; stores are
exposed, and with one dinning mutter all press into a half-circle at
the doors, in one of which stands the huge figure of Balam, the head
driver. He gives a scanning look at the circle of anxious faces; he
would have us think the importance of the plantation centred in his
glowing black face. There he stands-a measure in his hand-while
another driver, with an air of less dignity, cries out, with a
stentorian voice, the names of the heads of families, and the number