“But I don’t mind so much their missin’ of the game,” said Alphonso, “as I do their wanderin’ off by themselves an’ gettin’ lost in this ’ere swamp. It takes me such a pile o’ walkin’ before I can round ’em up again. I remember once I was fool enough to let a party of three go off huntin’ by themselves. It took me two days before I found ’em again, an’ I can tell you I was gettin’ mighty anxious. My! didn’t they enjoy the wild-cow beefsteak I cooked for ’em that night!”
As he spun his yarns, we hoped to beguile Alphonso into a more personal strain and get him to tell about his own life and his mother to whom he had more than once alluded. Although evidently unwilling to do so, he did tell us enough of his life so that we could piece together his story and account for his opposing characteristics. It seemed that his mother had been an heiress and a belle in the days before the war. She had married a colonel who was killed in one of the first battles, and her only child, Alphonso, had at the age of eleven been thrust out into the world to gain a living for himself and his mother. This he had succeeded in doing, but there had been no time for education—that is, for book-knowledge. Chivalry of manner he had learned from his lady-mother. The wiles of Cupid he had likewise shunned. As he told us, he was an “old bach,” and lived alone with “maw,” and reckoned he’d continue so to do, When we tried to gather more details of his life, he showed himself shy, as well as modest, and parried our most skillful questions. His last evasion led to an incident which proved much to our advantage.
“Look-a-there,” he cried, not answering the Spinster’s last quiz. “Do you see that owl, ma’am, perched on that dead branch in the top of that pine tree? He’s the largest I’ve seen this year. Would you like him? He’d make a mighty nice specimen in case you’re collectin’.”
The Spinster’s eye and mine met in consultation. The decision was unanimous, and an instant later the guide’s unerring rifle rang out and the owl was fluttering in the water dead. He was picked up and his plumage smoothed, and he was carefully bestowed under one of the boat seats. The small remaining portion of our journey was given up to talk about our new possession and how he should ultimately be disposed of, and in this manner our day with Alphonso, “the Lohengrin of the Swamp,” drew to a close. We were met at the appointed time and place by fat Moses with the springless carriage. Alphonso bade us a courteous adieu, again leaning against his oar in the attitude of the morning.
Moses drove us back to the station at a rapid pace, chuckling the while at our owl which lay on the seat beside him and which he said “looked just like de debbil.” We arrived at the station in time to procure a box for our owl, and then boarding the train arrived safely in Norfolk that night.
Louise E. Catlin.
Evening Post, N. Y.
MISCELLANEA OF AMERICAN HISTORY:
A REFERENCE LIST
The short list following is partly supplemental to Larned’s Literature of American History; its regular A. L. A. continuations; the various cumulative indexes to periodicals and Miss Kroeger’s Guide to reference books (q. v.). This little collection, which may be extended, is intended merely ta present some clews to additional means of historical research.