Maryland is here rather a level, unpicturesque country,—­the gaze of the traveler bounded, at no great distance, by oak woods, with here and there a dark line of pine.  We saw few travelers, passed a ragged squad or two of colored boys and girls, and met some colored women on their way to or from church, perhaps.  Never ask a colored person—­at least the crude, rustic specimens—­any question that involves a memory of names, or any arbitrary signs; you will rarely get a satisfactory answer.  If you could speak to them in their own dialect, or touch the right spring in their minds, you would, no doubt, get the desired information.  They are as local in their notions and habits as the animals, and go on much the same principles, as no doubt we all do, more or less.  I saw a colored boy come into a public office one day, and ask to see a man with red hair; the name was utterly gone from him.  The man had red whiskers, which was as near as he had come to the mark.  Ask your washerwoman what street she lives on, or where such a one has moved to, and the chances are that she cannot tell you, except that it is a “right smart distance” this way or that, or near Mr. So-and-so, or by such and such a place, describing some local feature.  I love to amuse myself, when walking through the market, by asking the old aunties, and the young aunties, too, the names of their various “yarbs.”  It seems as if they must trip on the simplest names.  Bloodroot they generally call “grubroot;” trailing arbutus goes by the names of “troling” arbutus, “training arbuty-flower,” and ground “ivory;” in Virginia they call woodchucks “moonacks.”

On entering Pumpkintown—­a cluster of five or six small, whitewashed blockhouses, toeing squarely on the highway—­the only inhabitant we saw was a small boy, who was as frank and simple as if he had lived on pumpkins and marrow squashes all his days.

Half a mile farther on, we turned to the right into a characteristic Southern road,—­a way entirely unkempt, and wandering free as the wind; now fading out into a broad field; now contracting into a narrow track between hedges; anon roaming with delightful abandon through swamps and woods, asking no leave and keeping no bounds.  About two o’clock we stopped in an opening in a pine wood and ate our lunch.  We had the good fortune to hit upon a charming place.  A wood-chopper had been there, and let in the sunlight full and strong; and the white chips, the newly-piled wood, and the mounds of green boughs, were welcome features, and helped also to keep off the wind that would creep through under the pines.  The ground was soft and dry, with a carpet an inch thick of pine-needles; and with a fire, less for warmth than to make the picture complete, we ate our bread and beans with the keenest satisfaction, and with a relish that only the open air can give.