"'Cause den de wild spirits come out, and talk in de trees. Dey make me feel bery strong har," he replied, striking his hand on his breast.
"The night and the storm, Scip, make me feel like cultivating another sort of spirits. There are some in the wagon-box; suppose we stop and see what they are."
We stopped, and I took out a small willow-flask, which held the "spirits of Otard," and offered it to the darky.
"No, massa," he said, laughing, "I neber touch dem sort ob spirits; dey raise de bery ole deble."
Not heeding the darky's example, I took "a long and a strong pull," and—felt the better for it.
Again we rode on, and again and again I "communed with the spirits," till a sudden exclamation from Scip aroused me from the half-stupor into which I was falling. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"A light, massa, a light!"
"Where?"
"Dar, way off in de trees—"
"Sure enough, glory, hallelujah, there it is! We're all right now, Scip."