On large plantations the young children of the field-women are left with them only at night, and are herded together during the day, in a separate cabin, in charge of nurses. These nurses are feeble, sickly women, or recent mothers; and the fact of Jule's being employed in that capacity was evidence that she was unfit for outdoor labor.
Madam P——, who was waiting on the piazza to see us off, seemed about to remonstrate against this arrangement, but she hesitated a moment, and in that moment we had bidden her "Good-bye," and galloped away.
We were soon at the cabin of the negro-hunter, and the coachman, dismounting, called him out.
"Hurry up, hurry up," said the Colonel, as Sandy appeared, "we haven't a moment to spare."
"Jest so—jest so, Cunnel; I'll jine ye in a jiffin," replied he of the reddish extremities.
Emerging from the shanty with provoking deliberation—the impatience of my host had infected me—the clay-eater slowly proceeded to mount the horse of the negro, while his dirt-bedraggled wife, and clay-encrusted children, followed close at his heels, the younger ones huddling around for the tokens of paternal affection usual at parting. Whether it was the noise they made, or their frightful aspect, I know not, but the horse, a spirited animal, took fright on their appearance, and nearly broke away from the negro, who was holding him. Seeing this, the Colonel said:
"Clear out, you young scare-crows. Into the house with you."
"They arn't no more scare-crows than yourn, Cunnel J——," said the mother, in a decidedly belligerent tone. "You may 'buse my old man—he kin stand it—but ye shan't blackguard my young 'uns!"
The Colonel laughed, and was about to make a good-natured reply, when Sandy yelled out:
"Gwo enter the house and shet up, ye —— ——."