"You have the oats already; for they were eaten last night by six Confederate chickens, and my slave, Mr. Johnson, sold them chickens to a prospecting detachment of the Mackerel Brigade this morning. Don't talk to me any more," continued the Confederacy, sadly, "for I am very miserable, and haven't seen a quarter in six months."
Samyule seemed touched, and put his hand half-way into his pocket, but remembered his probable children, and refrained from romantic generosity.
"Let me see Mr. Johnson," says he, reflectively, "and I will question him concerning the South."
The Confederacy indulged in a plaintive cat-call, whereupon there emerged from an adjacent clump of bushes a beautiful black being, richly attired in a heavy seal-ring and a red neck-tie. It was Mr. Johnson.
"You have sent for me," says Mr. Johnson, with much dignity, "and I have come. If you do not want me, I will return."
"You have seen the tragic Forrest?" said Samyule.
"The forest is my home," replied Mr. Johnson, "and in its equal shade my humble hut stands sacredly embowered. As the gifted Whittier might say:
"There lofty trees uprear in pillared state,
And crystal streams the thirsty deer elate;
While through the halls that base the dome of leaves