"Where is my trunk, Eneas?" The old negro was making a horn of his hands and giving the plantation halloo. With his eyes set on the banking shadows beyond the fire, he waited, an inscrutable smile on his wrinkled face. Presently, into the circle of light came an old grey mare, drawing a wagon in which sat a yellow woman, hovering a small colony of children.
"I done brought you a whole bunch o' new Yellerhama, Burningham niggers, Marse George! Some folks tell me dey is free, but I know dey b'long ter Marse George Tommey des like Lady Chain and her colt! Marse George, you oughter see dat horse—"
"Where is the trunk?" repeated the Major, laughing and wiping his eyes. "Where did you leave it, Eneas?"
"I ain't left hit," said Eneas, indignantly. "Git out o' dat wagon, niggers, fo' I bus
somer you wide open!" The little colony fell over the wheels like cooters from a log, and drawing aside the hay that had held them, Eneas brought forth a time and weather defying hair trunk. He heaved a mighty sigh of relief as he dropped it on the ground:
"Dar 'tis, Marse George, an' I sho is glad to git shut o' dat ol' bunch o' hide an' hair!" The bride danced and clapped her tiny hands: "My cup! My cup! Get it! Quick! O, please somebody open the trunk!"
Major Tommey picked up an axe and with one blow sliced off the ancient lock. From its snug nest in cotton batting, the bride lifted a shining cup, the cup, Mr. Editor, advertised in your columns a few weeks ago. A bucket rattled down in the nearby well and the bride-groom came with a great gourd to fill it. Then he read aloud the quaint inscription:
"Ye bryde whose lippes kysse myne
An taste ye water an no wyne
Shall happy live and hersel see
A happy grandchile on each knee."
The little woman accepted the challenge with the cup, and smiling up to the face of her husband sipped of the crystal draught and handed him the cup. He, too, drank, but the slight flush on the bride's face was as nothing to the fiery scarlet of his own when a storm of applause greeted the act.