I had procured from a vine in the plum-orchard a gourd of huge dimensions, such as in that day were used by frugal housewives for the keeping of lard for family use.  It would hold in its capacious cavity at least half a bushel.  This was cut one-third of its circumference for a mouth, and this was garnished with teeth from the quills of a venerable gander, an especial pet of my mother.  The eyes were in proportion, and were covered with patches of red flannel, purloined from my mother’s scrap-basket.  A circle, an inch in diameter, made of charcoal, formed an iris to a pupil, cut round and large, through the flannel.  A candle was lighted, and introduced through a hole at the bottom of the gourd, and all mounted upon a pole some ten feet long.  In the dark it was hideous, and, on one or two occasions, had served secretly to frighten some negroes, to give it reputation.  It was designed for Rhea, the Carolinian.  On Saturday night it was his uniform practice to come up to the house, cleanly clad, to spend the evening.  There was a canal which conveyed the water from the head above to the mill.  This ran parallel with the stream, and was crossed, on the public road, by a bridge, one portion of which was shaded by a large crab-apple bush.  Though fifty years ago, it still remains to mark the spot.  Beyond the creek (which was bridged, for foot-passengers, with the trunk of a large tree,) was a newly cleared field, in which the negroes were employed burning brush on the Saturday night chosen for my sport.  Here, under this crab-tree, I awaited the coming of Rhea.  It was misty, and densely dark.  Presently the footsteps of my victim were heard approaching; he was on the bridge.  He came on cautiously, to be secure of a safe footing in the dark.  Suddenly I turned the grinning monster full in his face.  A scream and a leap followed.  Down the muddy creek-bank rushed my victim, plunged through the tumbling waters waist-deep, and, as soon as the opposite shore was reached, a vociferous call was made for Tom, the negro foreman.  Horror of horrors! it was my father’s voice.  In an instant my candle was out, and I was running.

I passed unconcernedly through the house and took a seat in the back passage, and awaited events.  It was not long before the sloppy noise of shoes full of water, heard in walking, came through the yard, and into the house.  It was my dear old frightened father, all reeking from his plunge into the creek.  “Why, husband,” asked mother, “how did you get so wet?” He slung the damp from his hat as he cleared his throat, and said:  “I slipped off that cursed log, in crossing the creek.”  Reflection had told him he had been foolishly frightened, and he was ashamed to acknowledge it.  My conscience smote me, but I laughed, and trembled—­for had he made discovery of the trick, it would have been my time to suffer.