"Oh, Marcus, what has happened? Is Rubin dead?" Rubin is a very beautiful bull, the pride of the place. Very slowly and with great dramatic effect Marcus answered: "No, ma'am, but the crop is ruin', all the rice is gone!" "Impossible," I cried, "it was so fine the last time I was here." "Yes, ma'am, but Sunday dey come a sea tide, what just sweep over the bank an' 'e bin on de rice till now; de watah bin a foot deep on all de rice, an' salt, ma'am, salt like 'e'll do for cook with, en to-day fu' de first 'e begin for drop, en I giv' yu' my word, ma'am, in my fiel' de rice yu' kin see on de hill is red, same as red flannel! You kin come en see fu yuself, ma'am, down as far as de bridge, for you kyant walk on de bank, 'e too wet."
I went and saw that the entire place was flooded and that the hills as they peeped out, here and there, had a reddish hue, instead of the vivid green of healthy rice.
What a disaster! A bolt out of a clear sky. If Marcus is right, it means ruin, and up to this time the rice was splendid. Of course, if salt water has covered the rice since Sunday there can be no hope except for the June rice, 60 acres, which was still under the sprout water, which the sea tide only diluted, and so it may escape. Marcus was so thoroughly cast down that I had to cheer him, and searched my brain for grains of comfort for him, until by dint of effort I became quite cheerful myself, in spite of the very black outlook. I made him taste the river water and he reported it still salt.
I stopped at Cherokee on the way home and saw the corn and cotton, and they are beautiful and do Jim great credit, for it is only by the constant stirring of the land with plough and cultivator that the crop has not suffered from the six-weeks drought. The oats are being cut, much injured by the drought, having made no growth and the grain not having filled out.
Tuesday, June 21.
Gave orders yesterday for the threshing of the oats to-day. The engineer fired up at daylight and had a fine head of steam on when the hands assembled, but Bonaparte looked at the sky and said he thought the day was too "treatish to trash" and sent the hands away, at least a quarter cord of light wood having been wasted, besides the engineer's time and the waste of the hands' time, and, worst of all, the losing of the day when there is so much work needed. It did not rain at all, and even if it had rained there would have been no harm done, for I had purposely had the oats hauled into the mill the day before, so that in case of rain they could still thresh. When I drove down, expecting to find things in full blast, I was very much provoked. I just had to leave, for there is no use to give vent to one's wrath. I told them to thresh to-morrow without regarding the weather.
June 22.
Went in to find threshing successfully accomplished; they got through quite early, so I determined to let them finish out their day by moving the piano. The oats made twenty bushels to the acre, which is more than I thought possible. No one in a city has any idea what the moving of a piano is. I always feel as though I were personally lifting and handling it, so entirely is the responsibility on my shoulders. My upright piano is my most cherished possession, companion, and friend, and I am always nervous over the perils of its four-mile drive from plantation to summer house.
