Uncle and Aunty Peter Gooden owned a fertile farm, and made a good living and more by diligent labor thereon.  A white “cracker” coveted this property, and told the ignorant aunty that he would let her have $300 on mortgage at two per cent. per week, so that she could buy a new yellow wagon, silver-mounted harness and prancing mules, a gorgeous red silk dress with much finery, with which she could outshine all her neighbors.  These unsophisticated, honest “coons,” thinking it meant that they would have to pay only two cents per week, accepted the offer, affixed their X marks to his unknown papers, and not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed like this simple couple.

In a short time they came to me broken-hearted, sobbing, and wailing, telling me that the “cracker shylock” had foreclosed, ordering them out of their house and home.  I at once notified the avaricious shark that he was guilty of violating the laws of the state by defrauding and by false pretenses, tendered him the principal with legal interest, and threatened punishment by law if he did not accept.  He said, like the fabled raccoon in the tree, “Don’t shoot, I’ll come down.”  I paid the money for which, in due time, Uncle Peter reimbursed me.

I secured the hatred of the “crackers,” but the undying gratitude of the negroes, who vied with each other in bringing us game in profusion, the first fruits of their crops, and shedding tears if we offered payment therefor, begging to be allowed to show their thankfulness by these free gifts.  If one of them heard a threat against us he would guard our house all night with a shotgun, and would shadow me as I went about in the night, ready to spring upon any of my assailants.

[Illustration:  Ups and Downs in the Wild Woods.]

I provided a school and church for these loving, dusky children, and it was pathetic and cheering to see them all, from the tiny pickaninnies to the tottering gray heads, going regularly with their primers and Bibles, trying to learn to read and write.

Many pleasant evenings in midwinter we sat on our vine-clad piazza, enjoying the balmy breezes, perfumed with the delicious orange blossoms, looking at the stately pines glorified by moonlight and starlight; listening to the songs of these dark-faced but white-souled serenaders, the whites of whose eyes and perfect teeth could be seen beaming upon us through the dusky shades of the forest.

On the evening of the day when news arrived of the first election of Grover Cleveland to the Presidency, we were sitting as usual on our piazza, when, suddenly, I saw a flash of fire in the woods, followed by the report of a rifle, then others in quick succession.  Rushing to the scene I found a few Southern whites armed with repeating rifles, facing a large band of negroes carrying a motley array of pitchforks, scythes, razors, clubs, and a few ancient shotguns.  Yelling:  “Hold up!” I sprang between the embattled hosts, and demanded to know what was the row.