I passed the hoe-gang at work in the cotton-field, the overseer lounging among them carrying a whip; there were ten or twelve of them; not one looked up at me. Within ten minutes I passed five who were ploughing, with no overseer or driver in sight, and each stopped his plough to gaze at me.
June 3rd.—Yesterday I met a well-dressed man upon the road, and inquired of him if he could recommend me to a comfortable place to pass the night.
“Yes, I can,” said he; “you stop at John Watson’s. He is a real good fellow, and his wife is a nice, tidy woman; he’s got a good house, and you’ll be as well taken care of there as in any place I know.”
“What I am most concerned about is a clean bed,” said I.
“Well, you are safe for that, there.”
So distinct a recommendation was unusual, and when I reached the house he had described to me, though it was not yet dark, I stopped to solicit entertainment.
In the gallery sat a fine, stalwart man, and a woman, who in size and figure matched him well. Some ruddy, fat children were playing on the steps. The man wore a full beard, which is very uncommon in these parts. I rode to a horse-block near the gallery, and asked if I could be accommodated for the night. “Oh, yes, you can stay here if you can get along without anything to eat; we don’t have anything to eat but once a week.” “You look as if it agreed with you, I reckon I’ll try it for one night.” “Alight, sir, alight. Why, you came from Texas, didn’t you? Your rig looks like it,” he said, as I dismounted. “Yes, I’ve just crossed Texas, all the way from the Rio Grande.” “Have you though? Well, I’ll be right glad to hear something of that country.” He threw my saddle and bags across the rail of the gallery, and we walked together to the stable.
“I hear that there are a great many Germans in the western part of Texas,” he said presently.
“There are a great many; west of the Guadaloupe, more Germans than Americans born.”