‘He’m gwine to gwo, massa.  He want to say good-by to you.’

It seemed madness for Scip to start on a journey of seventy miles without rest, so I requested the Colonel to let him remain till the next day.  He cheerfully assented, and sent Jim to find him.  While waiting for the darky, I spoke of how faithfully he had served me during my journey.

‘He’s a splendid nigger,’ replied the Colonel; ’worth his weight in gold.  If affairs were more settled I would buy him.’

’But Colonel A——­ tells me he is too intelligent.  He objects to “knowing” niggers.’

‘I do not,’ replied my host, ’if they are honest, and I would trust Scip with uncounted gold.  Look at him,’ he continued, as the negro approached; ‘were flesh and bones ever better put together?’

The darky was a fine specimen of sable humanity, and I readily understood why the practiced eye of the Colonel appreciated his physical developments.

‘Scip,’ I said, ’you must not think of going to-day; the Colonel will be glad to let you remain until you are fully rested.’

’Tank you, massa, tank you bery much, but de ole man will spec me, and I orter gwo.’

‘Oh, never mind old ——­,’ said the Colonel, ‘I’ll take care of him.’

‘Tank you, Cunnel, den I’ll stay har till de mornin.’

Taking a by-path which led through the forest in the rear of the mansion, we soon reached a small stream, and, following its course for a short distance, came upon a turpentine distillery, which the Colonel explained to me was one of three that prepared the product of his plantation for market, and provided for his family of two hundred souls.

It was enclosed, or rather roofed, by a rude structure of rough boards, open at the sides, and sustained on a number of pine poles about thirty feet in height, and bore a strong resemblance to the usual covering of a New England haystack.

Three stout negro men, divested of all clothing excepting a pair of coarse gray trowsers and a red shirt,—­it was a raw, cold, wintry day,—­and with cotton bandannas bound about their heads, were ’tending the still.’  The foreman stood on a raised platform level with its top, but as we approached very quietly seated himself on a turpentine barrel which a moment before he had rolled over the mouth of the boiler.  Another negro was below, feeding the fire with ‘light wood,’ and a third was tending the trough by which the liquid rosin found its way into the semi-circle of rough barrels intended for its reception.

‘Hello, Junius, what in creation are you doing there?’ asked the Colonel, as we approached, of the negro on the turpentine barrel.

‘Holein’ her down, Cunnel; de ole ting got a mine to blow up dis mornin; I’se got dis barrl up har to hole her down.’

’Why, you everlasting nigger, if the top leaks you’ll be blown to eternity in half a second.’

‘Reckon not, massa; de barrl and me kin hole her.  We’ll take de risk.’