“How is that?” I asked, much interested.
“Don’t know; just ha’nted,” said the man gruffly, relapsing into silence amid a fire of sparks.
Leaving my taciturn companion, I sauntered down to the road, my steps turning intuitively in the direction of the old tree.
A chill wind came from the river, and a flight of crows with harsh cries arose from its branches, as it stood, the central landmark in the stretch of meadows. On one side of the road was a zigzag rail fence, and on the topmost rail of this, under the tree, I seated myself. The lowest branches almost touched my head, and the dry and dense foliage rustled with every breeze.
Just beyond were two wooden posts, the entrance of a carriage-way leading through a corn-field to what I had not noticed before, a large house far back from the road. As I sat there, facing the afterglow of the sunset, I became aware of the figure of an old negro coming slowly through the corn-rows, through the gate,—a bent negro with bushy white hair. Taking off his rabbit-skin cap, with a courtly bow he seated himself on the roots of the tree.
For some moments we sat there in silence, the old man, with his hands folded, gazing into the west.
“Good evening, uncle,” I ventured to remark. “Do you live near here?”
“Not far away,—up dat a-way,” waving his hand indefinitely in the direction of the shadowy mansion.
“Have you lived here long?” I asked.
“Many an’ many a year,” he responded wearily. “Ebber sence I cum inter de world. I belonged to Mars’ Brooke up yonder.”