One morning old Julius McAdoo, our colored coachman, harnessed the gray mare to the rockaway, and drove my wife and me over to the sawmill from which I meant to order the new lumber.  We drove down the long lane which led from our house to the plank-road; following the plank-road for about a mile, we turned into a road running through the forest and across the swamp to the sawmill beyond.  Our carriage jolted over the half-rotted corduroy road which traversed the swamp, and then climbed the long hill leading to the sawmill.  When we reached the mill, the foreman had gone over to a neighboring farmhouse, probably to smoke or gossip, and we were compelled to await his return before we could transact our business.  We remained seated in the carriage, a few rods from the mill, and watched the leisurely movements of the mill-hands.  We had not waited long before a huge pine log was placed in position, the machinery of the mill was set in motion, and the circular saw began to eat its way through the log, with a loud whir which resounded throughout the vicinity of the mill.  The sound rose and fell in a sort of rhythmic cadence, which, heard from where we sat, was not unpleasing, and not loud enough to prevent conversation.  When the saw started on its second journey through the log, Julius observed, in a lugubrious tone, and with a perceptible shudder:—­

“Ugh! but dat des do cuddle my blood!”

“What’s the matter, Uncle Julius?” inquired my wife, who is of a very sympathetic turn of mind.  “Does the noise affect your nerves?”

“No, Mis’ Annie,” replied the old man, with emotion, “I ain’ narvous; but dat saw, a-cuttin’ en grindin’ thoo dat stick er timber, en moanin’, en groanin,’ en sweekin’, kyars my ’memb’ance back ter ole times, en ‘min’s me er po’ Sandy.”  The pathetic intonation with which he lengthened out the “po’ Sandy” touched a responsive chord in our own hearts.

“And who was poor Sandy?” asked my wife, who takes a deep interest in the stories of plantation life which she hears from the lips of the older colored people.  Some of these stories are quaintly humorous; others wildly extravagant, revealing the Oriental cast of the negro’s imagination; while others, poured freely into the sympathetic ear of a Northern-bred woman, disclose many a tragic incident of the darker side of slavery.

“Sandy,” said Julius, in reply to my wife’s question, “was a nigger w’at useter b’long ter ole Mars Marrabo McSwayne.  Mars Marrabo’s place wuz on de yuther side’n de swamp, right nex’ ter yo’ place.  Sandy wuz a monst’us good nigger, en could do so many things erbout a plantation, en alluz ‘ten’ ter his wuk so well, dat w’en Mars Marrabo’s chilluns growed up en married off, dey all un ’em wanted dey daddy fer ter gin ’em Sandy fer a weddin’ present.  But Mars Marrabo knowed de res’ would n’ be satisfied ef he gin Sandy ter a’er one un ’em; so w’en dey wuz all done married, he fix it by ‘lowin’ one er his chilluns