A bright-spirited party of Negro farm folk wrestling up the hill on basket-laden mules, came into view.
"Howdy, Massa."
"God bless yo' Massa."
"Gwine town, Massa?"
"Be ca'ful—de fire hag dem a prowl 'bout yah, Massa."
He pulled up the horse, puzzled at the spreading of the squirting fire.
"God—fire hags—surely the niggers can't be right."
He turned ashen, the reins in his hands tight, the horse pawing and pegging the marl understandingly.
The balls of fire subsided, but he was deep in the marl gully and unable to trace the origin of the pink hazes bursting on the sky's crest. The wind, however, was a pure carrier of smell, and the tainted odor of burnt cane filled the road.
"Wonder whose canes they're burning—"