CHAPTER VI


The next morning found Phil walking again between the white, clean rows
of the quarter houses. He was always finding something to interest him.
Every yard had its gorgeous red autumn flowers. Some of them had
roses in bloom. The walks from the gate to the door were edged with
white-washed bricks or conch shells. The conch shells were souvenirs of
summer outings at the seashore.

In the corner of the back yard there was the tall pole on which were
hung five or six dried gourds with tiny holes cut in the sides for the
martins. And every gourd had its black family. The martins were the
guardians of the servants' chicken yards. The hawks were numerous and
the woods close to the quarters. Few chickens were lost by hawks. The
martins circled the skies in battalions, watching, chattering, guarding,
basking in the southern sun.

At noon the assembly bell rang at the end of the Broadway of the
quarters. From every cottage, from field and stable, blacksmith shop,
carpenter's shop, the house of the spinners, the weavers, the dairy, the
negroes poured toward the shed beside the bell tower.

"What is it?" Phil asked of Custis.

"Saturday noon. All work stops."

"My Lord, it's been raining nearly all morning. The field hands haven't