“It’s bad luck, suh, ter raise a’ umbrella in de house, en w’iles I dunno whuther it’s bad luck ter kyar one inter de piazzer er no, I ’lows it’s alluz bes’ ter be on de safe side.  I did n’ s’pose you en young missis ‘u’d be gwine on yo’ dribe ter-day, but bein’ ez it’s my pa’t ter take you ef you does, I ’lowed I ’d repo’t fer dooty, en let you say whuther er no you wants ter go.”

“I’m glad you came, Julius,” I responded.  “We don’t want to go driving, of course, in the rain, but I should like to consult you about another matter.  I’m thinking of taking in a piece of new ground.  What do you imagine it would cost to have that neck of woods down by the swamp cleared up?”

The old man’s countenance assumed an expression of unwonted seriousness, and he shook his head doubtfully.

“I dunno ‘bout dat, suh.  It mought cos’ mo’, en it mought cos’ less, ez fuh ez money is consarned.  I ain’ denyin’ you could cl’ar up dat trac’ er Ian’ fer a hund’ed er a couple er hund’ed dollahs,—­ef you wants ter cl’ar it up.  But ef dat ‘uz my trac’ er Ian’, I would n’ ’sturb it, no, suh, I would n’; sho ’s you bawn, I would n’.”

“But why not?” I asked.

“It ain’ fittin’ fer grapes, fer noo groun’ nebber is.”

“I know it, but”—­

“It ain’ no yeathly good fer cotton, ’ca’se it’s top low.”

“Perhaps so; but it will raise splendid corn.”

“I dunno,” rejoined Julius deprecatorily.  “It’s so nigh de swamp dat de ’coons’ll eat up all de cawn.”

“I think I’ll risk it,” I answered.

“Well, suh,” said Julius, “I wushes you much joy er yo’ job.  Ef you has bad luck er sickness er trouble er any kin’, doan blame me.  You can’t say ole Julius did n’ wa’n you.”

“Warn him of what, Uncle Julius?” asked my wife.

“Er de bad luck w’at follers folks w’at ‘sturbs dat trac’ er Ian’.  Dey is snakes en sco’pions in dem woods.  En ef you manages ter ’scape de p’isen animals, you is des boun’ ter hab a ha’nt ter settle wid,—­ef you doan hab two.”

“Whose haunt?” my wife demanded, with growing interest.

“De gray wolf’s ha’nt, some folks calls it,—­but I knows better.”

“Tell us about it, Uncle Julius,” said my wife.  “A story will be a godsend to-day.”

It was not difficult to induce the old man to tell a story, if he were in a reminiscent mood.  Of tales of the old slavery days he seemed indeed to possess an exhaustless store,—­some weirdly grotesque, some broadly humorous; some bearing the stamp of truth, faint, perhaps, but still discernible; others palpable inventions, whether his own or not we never knew, though his fancy doubtless embellished them.  But even the wildest was not without an element of pathos,—­the tragedy, it might be, of the story itself; the shadow, never absent, of slavery and of ignorance; the sadness, always, of life as seen by the fading light of an old man’s memory.