droning a negro hymn.

Dark was coming on and a drizzly rain was falling. It was the
spring of the year, the day had been warm and the kitchen window
was open. I stole up to the open window. The woman's back was
toward me. I removed the plug of sassafras leaves and hurled the
hornet's nest so that it landed under the hag's skirts.

I watched the proceedings for one short moment, and then, as it
was getting late, I concluded I had better be off for St. Louis.
So I went away from there at the best gait I could command.

I could hear my arch-enemy screaming, and it was music to my ears
that even thrills me yet, sometimes. It was a better supper than
she would have given me.

I saw the negroes running from the quarters, and elsewhere, toward
the kitchen, and I must beg the reader to endeavor to imagine the
scene in that culinary department, as I am unable to describe it,
not having waited to see it out.

But I slid for the barn, secured my bundle and started for the
ancient city far away.

All night, on foot and alone, I trudged the turnpike that ran
through Nashville. I arrived in that city about daylight, tired
and hungry, but was too timid to stop for something to eat,
notwithstanding I had my four dollars safe in my pocket, and had
not eaten since noon, the day before.