Emma Campbell washed clothes in a large wooden tub set on a bench nailed between the two china-berry trees in the yard.  Peter loved those china-berry trees, covered with masses of sweet-smelling lilac-colored blossoms in the spring, and with clusters of hard green berries in the summer.  The beautiful feathery foliage made a pleasant shade for Emma Campbell’s wash-tubs.  Peter loved to watch her, she looked so important and so cheerful.  While she worked she sang endless “speretuals,” in a high, sweet voice that swooped bird-like up and down.

“I wants tuh climb up Ja-cob’s la-ad-dah,
Ja-cob’s la-ad-dah, Jacob’s la-ad-dah,
I wants tuh climb up Ja-cob’s la-ad-dah,
But I cain’t—­
Not un-tell I makes my peace wid de La-a-wd,
En I praise Him—­de La-a-wd! 
I ’ll praise Him—­tell I di-e,
I ’ll praise Him—­tell I die! 
I ’ll si-ng, Je-ee-ru-suh-lem!”

Emma Campbell would sing, and keep time with thumps and clouts of sudsy clothes.  She boiled the clothes in the same large black iron pot in which she boiled crabs and shrimp in the summer-time.  Peter always raked the chips for her fire, and the leaves and pine-cones mixed with them gave off a pleasant smoky smell.  Emma had a happy fashion of roasting sweet potatoes under the wash-pot, and you could smell those, too, mingled with the soapy odor of the boiling clothes, which she sloshed around with a sawed-off broom-handle.  Other smells came from over the cove, of pine-trees, and sassafras, and bays, and that indescribable and clean odor which the winds bring out of the woods.

The whole place was full of pleasant noises, dear and familiar sounds of water running seaward or swinging back landward, always with odd gurglings and chucklings and small sucking noises, and runs and rushes; and of the myriad rustlings of the huge live-oaks hung with long gray moss; and the sycamores frou-frouing like ladies’ dresses; the palmettos rattled and clashed, with a sound like rain; the pines swayed one to another, and only in wild weather did they speak loudly, and then their voices were very high and airy.  Peter liked the pines best of all.  His earliest impression of beauty and of mystery was the moon walking “with silver-sandaled feet” over their tall heads.  He loved it all—­the little house, the trees, the tide-water, the smells, the sounds; in and out of which, keeping time to all, went the whi-r-rr of his mother’s sewing-machine, and the scuff-scuffing of Emma Campbell’s wash-board.

Sometimes his mother, pausing for a second, would turn to look at him, her tired, pale face lighting up with her tender mother-smile: 

“What are you making now, Peter?” she would ask, as she watched his laborious efforts to put down on his slate his conception of the things he saw.  She was always vitally interested in anything Peter said or did.

“Well, I started to make you—­or maybe it was Emma.  But I thought I’d better hang a tail on it and let it be the cat.”  He studied the result gravely.  “I’ll stick horns on it, and if they’re very good horns I’ll let it be the devil; if they’re not, it can be Mis’ Hughes’s old cow.”