When my wife and I set out for our drive in the cool of the evening,—­afternoon is “evening” in Southern parlance,—­one of the servants put into the rock-away two large earthenware jugs.  Our drive was to be down through the swamp to the mineral spring at the foot of the sand-hills beyond.  The water of this spring was strongly impregnated with sulphur and iron, and, while not particularly agreeable of smell or taste, was used by us, in moderation, for sanitary reasons.

When we reached the spring, we found a man engaged in cleaning it out.  In answer to an inquiry he said that if we would wait five or ten minutes, his task would be finished and the spring in such condition that we could fill our jugs.  We might have driven on, and come back by way of the spring, but there was a bad stretch of road beyond, and we concluded to remain where we were until the spring should be ready.  We were in a cool and shady place.  It was often necessary to wait awhile in North Carolina; and our Northern energy had not been entirely proof against the influences of climate and local custom.

While we sat there, a man came suddenly around a turn of the road ahead of us.  I recognized in him a neighbor with whom I had exchanged formal calls.  He was driving a horse, apparently a high-spirited creature, possessing, so far as I could see at a glance, the marks of good temper and good breeding; the gentleman, I had heard it suggested, was slightly deficient in both.  The horse was rearing and plunging, and the man was beating him furiously with a buggy-whip.  When he saw us, he flushed a fiery red, and, as he passed, held the reins with one hand, at some risk to his safety, lifted his hat, and bowed somewhat constrainedly as the horse darted by us, still panting and snorting with fear.

“He looks as though he were ashamed of himself,” I observed.

“I’m sure he ought to be,” exclaimed my wife indignantly.  “I think there is no worse sin and no more disgraceful thing than cruelty.”

“I quite agree with you,” I assented.

“A man w’at ’buses his hoss is gwine ter be ha’d on de folks w’at wuks fer ‘im,” remarked Julius.  “Ef young Mistah McLean doan min’, he’ll hab a bad dream one er dese days, des lack ’is grandaddy had way back yander, long yeahs befo’ de wah.”

“What was it about Mr. McLean’s dream, Julius?” I asked.  The man had not yet finished cleaning the spring, and we might as well put in time listening to Julius as in any other way.  We had found some of his plantation tales quite interesting.

“Mars Jeems McLean,” said Julius, “wuz de grandaddy er dis yer gent’eman w’at is des gone by us beatin’ his hoss.  He had a big plantation en a heap er niggers.  Mars Jeems wuz a ha’d man, en monst’us stric’ wid his han’s.  Eber sence he growed up he nebber ‘peared ter hab no feelin’ fer nobody.  W’en his daddy, ole Mars John McLean, died, de plantation en all de niggers fell ter young