The yearly powwow at Casa Bianca.
Two years ago, a man and his wife, of whom I thought a great deal, who had been married and who had lived always at Casa Bianca, left me to go to town. They had prospered and bought the usual progression—oxen, cows, a horse, and finally a house and lot in the county town, Gregory. This house they rented out for several years, and then the desire came to go and occupy and enjoy the house and give up the laborious rice planting. It seemed very natural, and though I was very sorry to part with them I could not say a word against the plan. Dan and Di were both splendid specimens of physical health and far above the average in intelligence, capacity, and fidelity. They went well provided, according to their standards. With his horse and wagon Dan supported his family in comfort, hauling wood, etc., while Di opened a little shop in one of her front rooms, which was well patronized, as their house was on the outskirts and far from the shopping street.
One afternoon, some months after their move, Di said to Dan: "I'm dat sleepy I haf tu lay down, but call me sho' befo' de sun set." She left Dan smoking his pipe on the little porch, where, about an hour later, the youngest child came to him for something, and he said, "Go ax yo' Ma, 'e toll me tu wake um fo' de sun go down." The baby went and returned reporting, "Ma 'oudn't answer me." Dan went in to find her dead. He brought her home to the plantation, and in a few months his son brought him also, to rest under the moss-laden live oaks.
This is only one instance out of many; those accustomed to regular outdoor work cannot stand the confinement and relaxation of town life.
But back to the powwow at Casa Bianca. The two families who are moving to town carry off four young girls who are splendid workers, and very necessary to the cultivation of my "wages fields." Two of the men announce they are tired of renting and want to go "on contraak." This I do not quite understand, as they always sign a paper promising to do all that is required on the place, which I have considered a contract; and I am a good deal amused over their efforts to explain, when at last Marcus, the foreman, says to them: "De lady aint onde'stan', kase he neber wuk contrak, but I will make she sensible," which he proceeded to do with great delicacy. I found it simply was to work entirely for wages and not rent, and I was expected to give each one a half acre of rice land to plant, in addition to their house and large garden free of rent, in return for which they were to sign "contraak." It is impossible to show by the writing the funny emphasis which they put on the last syllable of this word.
"Four young girls who are splendid workers."
The two hands were poor renters, so that the present arrangement is perfectly satisfactory to me, only the portion of land rented grows smaller year by year, and where is it to end? I cannot plant more land on wages than I do, for it costs $15 per acre, besides the keeping of the banks and trunks on the whole 200 acres. Last year there were ten acres less than the year before, and this year there will be twenty-five acres less than in 1903. Besides this, the plantation to the north of Casa Bianca, whose lands adjoin, has been practically abandoned, so that the water rushes down through its broken river bank on my fields, and I have to go to a heavy outlay to keep it out.
Marcus asked me to go round the bank with him, and after thinking it well over I have concluded to throw out three of my fields and make up a straight bank from the upland down to the Black River, a distance of half a mile, high, wide, and strong enough to act as a river bank, and resist the rushing water which comes with immense force in the Black River, for it is the deepest stream in this section, in many places 60 or 70 feet deep. It will cost a lot, and I do not know where the money is to come from; but if I do not make the stand against the water, I shall not be able to plant anything, and this is the place from which I derive my income.