“Uncle Ish!” called the boy sharply.  The old man lowered the bag from his shoulder and turned slowly round.

“Who dat?” he demanded severely.  “Ain’t I done tell you dar ain’ no ha’nts ’long dis yer road?”

“It’s me, Uncle Ish,” said the boy.  “It’s Nick Burr.  I heard you singing a long ways off.”

“Den what you want ter go a-hollerin’ en a-stealin’ up on er ole nigger fer des’ ’bout sundown?”

“But, Uncle Ish, I didn’t mean to scare you.  I jest heard—­”

“Skeer!  Who dat you been skeerin’?  Ain’t I done tole you dar ain’ no ha’nts round dese parts?  What I gwine ter be skeered fer uv er little no ‘count white trash dat ain’ never own er nigger in dere life?  Who you done skeer dis time?”

He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and went on his way, the boy trotting beside him.  For a time the old man muttered angrily beneath his breath, and then, becoming mollified by the boy’s silence, he looked kindly down on the small red head at his elbow.

“You ain’t said howdy, honey,” he remarked in a fault-finding tone.  “Dar ain’ no manners dese days, nohow.  Dey ain’ no manners en dey ain’ no nuttin’.  De niggers, dey is gwine plum outer dey heads, en de po’ white trash dey’s gwine plum outer dey places.”

He looked at Nicholas, who flinched and hung his head.

“Dar ain’ nobody lef to keep ’em ter dey places, no mo’.  In Ole Miss’ time der wa’nt no traipsin’ roun’ er niggers en intermixin’ up er de quality en de trash.  Ole Miss, she des’ pint out der place en dey stay dar.  She ain’ never stomach noner der high-ferlutin’ doin’s roun’ her.  She know whar she b’long en she know whar dey b’long.  Bless yo’ life, Ole Miss wuz dat perticklar she wouldn’t drink arter Ole Marster, hisself, ‘thout renchin’ out de gow’d twel t’wuz mos’ bruck off de handle.”

He sighed and shifted his bag.

“Ef Ole Miss ‘ud been yer thoo’ dis las’ war, dar wouldn’t er been no slue-footed Yankees a-foolin’ roun’ her parlour.  She’d uv up en show’d ’em de do’—­”

“Are all Yankees slue-footed, Uncle Ish?”

“All dose I seed, honey—­des’ es slue-footed.  En dar wuz Miss Chris’ en ole Miss Grissel a-makin’ up ter ’em, en a-layin’ out er demselves fer ‘em en a-spreadin’ uv de table, des’ de same es ef dey went straight on dey toes.  Dar wan’t much sense in dat ar war, nohow, an’ I ain’ never knowed yit what ‘twuz dey fit about.  Hit wuz des’ a-hidin’ en a-teckin’ ter de bushes, en a-hidin’ agin, en den a-feastin’, en a-curtsin’ ter de Yankees.  Dar wan’t no sense in it, no ways hits put, but Ise heered Marse Tom ’low hit wuz a civil war, en dat’s what it wuz.  When de Yankees come a-ridin’ up en a-reinin’ in dere hosses befo’ de front po’ch, en Miss Chris come out a-smilin’ en a-axin’ howdy, en den dey stan’ dar a-bowin’ en a-scrapin’, hit wuz des’ es civil es ef dey’d come a-co’tin’.  But Ole Miss wuz dead en buried, she wuz.”