through the wall.

I saw a pile of irons by the door. Placing my foot on a queer double
jointed ring, I said:

"I wonder what that queer sort of a ring could have been used for,"
looking toward the old dilapidated cotton-gin near by.

"That's a neck iron," said an old woman standing near me.

"A neck-iron! What do you mean?"

"Why, it's an iron collar to wear on the neck."

"But you are certainly mistaken," said I, picking it up; "you see
these joints are riveted with iron as large as my finger, and it could
never be taken off over one's head."

"But we knows; dat's Uncle Tim's collar. An' he crawled off in dat
fence-corner," pointing to the spot, "an' died thar, an' Massa George
had his head cut off to get de iron off."

"Is it possible for a human being to become so brutal as to cut a
man's head off when he is dead?"

She looked as if she thought I doubted her word, and said: "It didn't
hurt Uncle Tim when he was dead as it did when de iron wore big sores
way down to de bone, and da got full o' worms afore he died. His neck
an' head all swell up, an' he prayed many, many prayers to God to come
and take him out his misery."