When Viola took her seat Jasper Very arose in his place and stood looking over his congregation for some moments in silence. He did not wish to destroy the effects of the song—and wanted to give the people time to quiet their aroused feelings. He then proceeded with his discourse on our Lord's second appearing, but though he preached in his usual masterly way and held the attention of his audience throughout the tide of feeling did not rise as high as when Viola sang. He was willing that she should bear the honors of the occasion. That singing was long remembered and passed into tradition among the people.
Horse Thieves.
Springtime in Kentucky. One wants a new language to express its charms. Winter's shadows fly away. Clouds that looked dark, heavy, and threatening are followed by rosy sunsets and luminous peaks in the sky which appear like mountains standing round about the New Jerusalem. A warm breath of nature starts from the spicy islands south of the great Gulf, crosses it, then sweeps along Mississippi's mighty valley to the "happy hunting ground," bearing in its soft embrace birds of many wing—robin, bluebird, thrush, and sparrow. This breath melts the icy fetters of the streams, and they sing a sweet song of welcome. It enfolds the trees, and they put forth millions of little green ears to hear what the streams are saying. It fondly caresses the flower bushes, and they swell almost to bursting with reviving beauty. Like the green bush which Moses saw aflame with holy fire, every branch and twig shows the mystic presence of nature's God.
While birds with brightened plumage sing as though their lives would escape through their throats; while lambs, calves, and colts gambol in the pasture, filled with the happiness of young life; while fish rush upstream like flashes of silver light and the very trees clap their hands in praise, it is not conceivable that man, God's masterpiece, should be insensible to this season of the year. A sudden thrill like an electric current passes through his being; a subtle exhilaration, as when a man is filled with wine, possesses him, and he is in touch with the new life, whether he goes afield with team or plow or hunts the forest for the increasing game.
It was a day in early April. All the planters were busy in their fields, either laboring with their own hands or superintending the toil of their slaves. The negroes—those jocund children of nature—with happy faces and plantation melodies on their lips, were preparing the ground for its grain and tobacco seed. Judge LeMonde himself was in a rich field between his house and the river giving directions to his chief overseer. In the front garden, between the house and pine trees, could be seen Madam and Viola LeMonde and Mose and Nora all busy putting flower beds in order. Mose was digging the ground, Nora was using a light rake, and the white women were putting in some flower seeds.
While such peaceful work was being done in the river bottom, another scene was taking place at Simon Wiles' hillside farm. Though the season and weather called to earnest effort, we see Sam Wiles and Zibe Turner, the monster dwarf, seated on a big log behind the barn. Let us listen to what they are saying:
Wiles: "De ol' Jedge guv us a term in de jug (jail), an' I'm sure goin' to git even wuth him an' dat preacher too."
Turner: "I'll be wuth you in ary scrape you want to git up, but we uns must be keerful not to be ketched ag'in."