And then in the fall season, there was the big gin running at the Clopton place, with old Beck, the blind mule, going round and round, turning the cogged and pivoted post that set the machinery in motion. But the youngsters rarely grew tired of riding back and forth with Uncle Plato. He was the one person in the world who catered most completely to their whims, who was most responsive to their budding and eager fancies, and who entered most enthusiastically into the regions created and peopled by Nan's skittish and fantastic imagination.
These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especially Nan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which have been set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along with Gabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, and took as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if he were responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished Uncle Plato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy man began to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a common hearth—a faithful and believing audience. Uncle Æsop, it may be, cared less for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismal and perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed his behind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on that account. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of his small audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetual delight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shook his head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.
Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place to Shady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.
"Tooby sho I kin, honey. What you reckon I been doin' all deze long-come-shorts ef I dunner how ter spell? How you speck I kin git 'long, haulin' an' maulin', ef I dunner how ter spell? Why, I could spell long 'fo' I know'd my own name."
"Long-come-shorts, what are they?" asked Nan.
"Rainy days an' windy nights," responded Uncle Plato, throwing his head back, and closing his eyes.
"Let's hear you spell, then," said Nan.
"Dee-o-egg, dog," was the prompt response. Nan looked at Uncle Plato to see if he was joking, but he was solemnity itself. "E-double-egg, egg!" he continued.
"Now spell John A. Murrell," said Nan. Murrell, the land pirate, was one of her favourite heroes at this time.
Uncle Plato pretended to be very much shocked. "Why, honey, dat man wuz rank pizen. En spozen he wa'nt, how you speck me ter spell sump'n er somebody which I ain't never laid eyes on? How I gwineter spell Johnny Murrell, an' him done dead dis many a long year ago?"