“Three or four niggers is too much money for a pore man to invest in that way: they may lie down and die, and then whur’s yer money? Thar was five niggers owned in Middle Tennessy,” he added, “to one in this part of the State.”
Speaking of his farm, he said it was mighty good land till it wore out. He had raised two bales of cotton on three and a half acres, the past season. It was equally good for other crops. “I make some corn, some pork, some cotton, and a mule or two, every year: I never resk all on one thing.”
Looking at the open outside doors and the great roaring fires, I said I should think wood must be a very important item with Tennessee farmers.
“Yes, I reckon we burn two cords a week, such weather as this, just for fire, and as much more in the kitchen. We’ve wood enough. As we turn out old land, we must cle’r new; then we have the advantage of the ashes for ley and soap.”
“But the labor of chopping so much wood must be considerable.”
“Oh, I can chop enough in a day, or a day and a half, to last a week. Winters, farmers don’t do much else but feed and get wood.”
I said I thought they would some day regret not having kept up their cleared fields by proper cultivation, and preserved their forests.
“I allow we shall. I’ve just returned from a trip up into Middle Tennessy” (accented on the first syllable), “whur I used to live; they burnt up their timber thar, just as we’re doing hyere, and now they’re setting down and grieving because they’ve no wood. They save everything thar, to the trunks and crotches. We just leave them to rot, or log ’em up in heaps and burn ’em, whur the land’s to be cle’red; and use only the clean limbs, that chop easy and don’t require much splitting.” He broke forth in praise of a good warm fire. “Put on a big green back-log and build agin it,—that’s our fashion.”
Zeek’s mother came to announce our dinner. I crossed the open space, pausing only to wash my hands and face in a tin basin half filled with water and pieces of ice, and entered the kitchen. It was a less pretentious apartment than the sitting-room. There was no window in it; but wide chinks between the logs, and two open doors, let in a sufficiency of daylight, and more than a sufficiency of cold wind. There was a bed in one corner, and a little square pine table set in the centre of the room. A gourd of salt hung by the chimney, and a homemade broom leaned beside it. I noticed a scanty supply of crockery and kitchen utensils on pegs and shelves.
The table was neatly set, with a goodly variety of dishes for a late dinner in a back-country farm-house. I remember a plate of fried pork; fricasseed gray squirrel (cold); boiled “back of hog” (warmed up); a pitcher of milk; cold biscuit, cold corn bread, and “sweet bread” (a name given to a plain sort of cake).