 | CHAPTER VII.
THE MOTHER'S STRUGGLE. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE MOTHER'S STRUGGLE.
It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more
wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her
footsteps from Uncle Tom's cabin.
Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the danger of
her child, all blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning
sense of the risk she was running, in leaving the only
home she had ever known, and cutting loose from the protection
of a friend whom she loved and revered. Then there
was the parting from every familiar object, — the place where
she had grown up, the trees under which she had played, the
groves where she had walked many an evening in happier
days, by the side of her young husband, — everything, as it
lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproachfully
to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home
like that?
But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a
paroxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger.
Her boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and, in
an indifferent case, she would only have led him by the hand;
but now the bare thought of putting him out of her arms
made her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a
convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly forward.
The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled
at the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow
sent the blood backward to her heart, and quickened her
seemed to be come upon her; for she felt the weight of her boy
as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed
to increase the supernatural power that bore her on, while
from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the
prayer to a Friend above — “Lord, help! Lord, save me!”
If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were
going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morning,
— if you had seen the man, and heard that the papers
were signed and delivered, and you had only from twelve
o'clock till morning to make good your escape, — how fast could
you walk? How many miles could you make in those few
brief hours, with the darling at your bosom, — the little sleepy
head on your shoulder, — the small, soft arms trustingly
holding on to your neck?
For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept
him waking; but his mother so hurriedly repressed every
breath or sound, and so assured him that if he were only
still she would certainly save him, that he clung quietly round
her neck, only asking, as he found himself sinking to sleep,
“Mother, I don't need to keep awake, do I?”
“No, my darling; sleep, if you want to.”
“But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get
me?”
“No! so may God help me!” said his mother, with a
paler cheek, and a brighter light in her large dark eyes.
“You 're sure, an't you, mother?”
“Yes, sure!” said the mother, in a voice that startled
herself; for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that
was no part of her; and the boy dropped his little weary
head on her shoulder, and was soon asleep. How the touch of
those warm arms, the gentle breathings that came in her neck,
to her as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from
every gentle touch and movement of the sleeping, confiding
child. Sublime is the dominion of the mind over the body,
that, for a time, can make flesh and nerve impregnable, and
string the sinews like steel, so that the weak become so mighty.
The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed
by her dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went, leaving
one familiar object after another, slacking not, pausing not,
till reddening daylight found her many a long mile from all
traces of any familiar objects upon the open highway.
She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections,
in the little village of T—, not far from the Ohio
river, and knew the road well. To go thither, to escape
across the Ohio river, were the first hurried outlines of her
plan of escape; beyond that, she could only hope in God.
When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway,
with that alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement,
and which seems to be a sort of inspiration, she became
aware that her headlong pace and distracted air might bring on
her remark and suspicion. She therefore put the boy on the
ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she walked on at as
rapid a pace as she thought consistent with the preservation
of appearances. In her little bundle she had provided a store
of cakes and apples, which she used as expedients for quickening
the speed of the child, rolling the apple some yards
before them, when the boy would run with all his might after
it; and this ruse, often repeated, carried them over many a
half-mile.
After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland,
through which murmured a clear brook. As the child complained
of hunger and thirst, she climbed over the fence with
them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out of her little
package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not
eat; and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to
wedge some of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that
the rising in her throat would choke her.
“No, no, Harry darling! mother can't eat till you are
safe! We must go on — on — till we come to the river!”
And she hurried again into the road, and again constrained
herself to walk regularly and composedly forward.
She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was
personally known. If she should chance to meet any
who knew her, she reflected that the well-known kindness of
the family would be of itself a blind to suspicion, as making
it an unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive. As
she was also so white as not to be known as of colored lineage,
without a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was
much easier for her to pass on unsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farm-house,
to rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and
self; for, as the danger decreased with the distance, the
supernatural tension of the nervous system lessened, and she
found herself both weary and hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather
pleased than otherwise with having somebody come in to talk
with; and accepted, without examination, Eliza's statement,
that she “was going on a little piece, to spend a week with
her friends,” — all which she hoped in her heart might
prove strictly true.
An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T—,
by the Ohio river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in
heart. Her first glance was at the river, which lay, like
side.
It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and
turbulent; great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily
to and fro in the turbid waters. Owing to the peculiar form
of the shore on the Kentucky side, the land bending
far out into the water, the ice had been lodged and detained
in great quantities, and the narrow channel which swept
round the bend was full of ice, piled one cake over another,
thus forming a temporary barrier to the descending ice,
which lodged, and formed a great, undulating raft, filling up
the whole river, and extending almost to the Kentucky shore.
Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable
aspect of things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual
ferry-boat from running, and then turned into a small public
house on the bank, to make a few inquiries.
The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing
operations over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal,
stopped, with a fork in her hand, as Eliza's sweet and plaintive
voice arrested her.
“What is it?” she said.
“Is n't there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to
B—, now?” she said.
“No, indeed!” said the woman; “the boats has stopped
running.”
Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman,
and she said, inquiringly,
“May be you 're wanting to get over? — anybody sick?
Ye seem mighty anxious?”
“I 've got a child that 's very dangerous,” said Eliza. “I
never heard of it till last night, and I 've walked quite a piece
to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry.”
“Well, now, that 's onlucky,” said the woman, whose
motherly sympathies were much aroused; “I 'm re'lly consarned
for ye. Solomon!” she called, from the window,
towards a small back building. A man, in leather apron and
very dirty hands, appeared at the door.
“I say, Sol,” said the woman, “is that ar man going to
tote them bar'ls over to-night?”
“He said he should try, if 't was any way prudent,” said
the man.
“There 's a man a piece down here, that 's going over
with some truck this evening, if he durs'to; he 'll be in here to
supper to-night, so you 'd better set down and wait. That 's
a sweet little fellow,” added the woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
“Poor fellow! he is n't used to walking, and I 've hurried
him on so,” said Eliza.
“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman, opening
into a small bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza
laid the weary boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till he
was fast asleep. For her there was no rest. As a fire in
her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on; and she
gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that
lay between her and liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to
follow the course of her pursuers.
Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should
be hurried on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing
has often been seen before, that it required more than one to
make a bargain. So, although the order was fairly given
out in Haley's hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe by at
gave certain very gruff snorts, and tosses of her head, and
went on with every operation in an unusually leisurely and
circumstantial manner.
For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign
among the servants generally that Missis would not be particularly
disobliged by delay; and it was wonderful what a number
of counter accidents occurred constantly, to retard the
course of things. One luckless wight contrived to upset the
gravy; and then gravy had to be got up de novo, with due
care and formality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring with
dogged precision, answering shortly, to all suggestions of
haste, that she “warn't a going to have raw gravy on the
table, to help nobody's catchings.” One tumbled down with
the water, and had to go to the spring for more; and another
precipitated the butter into the path of events; and there was
from time to time giggling news brought into the kitchen that
“Mas'r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he could n't sit
in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin' and stalkin' to the
winders and through the porch.”
“Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly.
“He 'll get wus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't
mend his ways. His master 'll be sending for him, and then
see how he 'll look!”
“He 'll go to torment, and no mistake,” said little Jake.
“He desarves it!” said Aunt Chloe, grimly; “he 's broke
a many, many, many hearts, — I tell ye all!” she said,
stopping, with a fork uplifted in her hands; “it 's like what
Mas'r George reads in Ravelations, — souls a callin' under
the altar! and a callin' on the Lord for vengeance on sich! —
and by and by the Lord he 'll hear 'em — so he will!”
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was
sent in, the whole kitchen was at leisure to gossip with her,
and to listen to her remarks.
“Sich 'll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won't
ther?” said Andy.
“I 'd be glad to see it, I 'll be boun',” said little Jake.
“Chil'en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was
Uncle Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation
at the door.
“Chil'en!” he said, “I 'm afeard you don't know what
ye 're sayin'. Forever is a dre'ful word, chil'en; it 's awful
to think on 't. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human
crittur.”
“We would n't to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said
Andy; “nobody can help wishing it to them, they 's so awful
wicked.”
“Don't natur herself kinder cry out on em?” said Aunt
Chloe. “Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his
mother's breast, and sell him, and der little children as is
crying and holding on by her clothes, — don't dey pull 'em off
and sells em? Don't dey tear wife and husband apart?”
said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, “when it 's jest takin'
the very life on 'em? — and all the while does they feel one
bit, — don't dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommon
easy? Lor, if the devil don't get them, what 's he good for?”
And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her checked apron,
and began to sob in good earnest.
“Pray for them that 'spitefully use you, the good book
says,” says Tom.
“Pray for 'em!” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it 's too tough!
I can't pray for 'em.”
“It 's natur, Chloe, and natur 's strong,” said Tom, “but
an awful state a poor crittur's soul 's in that 'll do them ar
things, — you oughter thank God that you an't like him,
Chloe. I 'm sure I 'd rather be sold, ten thousand times
over, than to have all that ar poor crittur 's got to answer
for.”
“So 'd I, a heap,” said Jake. “Lor, should n't we cotch
it, Andy?”
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent
whistle.
“I 'm glad Mas'r did n't go off this morning, as he looked
to,” said Tom; “that ar hurt me more than sellin', it
did. Mebbe it might have been natural for him, but
't would have come desp't hard on me, as has known him from
a baby; but I 've seen Mas'r, and I begin ter feel sort o'
reconciled to the Lord's will now. Mas'r could n't help hisself;
he did right, but I 'm feared things will be kinder goin'
to rack, when I 'm gone. Mas'r can't be spected to be a
pryin' round everywhar, as I 've done, a keepin' up all the
ends. The boys all means well, but they 's powerful car'less.
That ar troubles me.”
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the
parlor.
“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice
that I give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars
if you are not on the spot when he wants you; he 's going
to-day to look after his other business, and you can have the
day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy.”
“Thank you, Mas'r,” said Tom.
“And mind yerself,” said the trader, “and don't come it
over your master with any o' yer nigger tricks; for I 'll take
he would n't trust any on ye — slippery as eels!”
“Mas'r,” said Tom, — and he stood very straight, — “I
was jist eight years old when ole Missis put you into my
arms, and you was n't a year old. `Thar,' says she, `Tom,
that 's to be your young Mas'r; take good care on him,' says
she. And now I jist ask you, Mas'r, have I ever broke
word to you, or gone contrary to you, 'specially since I was a
Christian?”
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his
eyes.
“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but
the truth; and if I was able to help it, all the world should n't
buy you.”
“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby,
“you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring
together means. Sir,” she said to Haley, “take good
account of who you sell him to, and let me know.”
“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring
him up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him
back.”
“I 'll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,”
said Mrs. Shelby.
“Of course,” said the trader, “all 's equal with me; li'ves
trade 'em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want
is a livin', you know, ma'am; that 's all any on us wants, I
s'pose.”
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by
the familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the
absolute necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings.
The more hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the
greater became Mrs. Shelby's dread of his succeeding in
motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She
therefore graciously smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and
did all she could to make time pass imperceptibly.
At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to
the posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the
scamper of the morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance
of zealous and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he
was boasting, in flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and
eminent success of the operation, now that he had “farly
come to it.”
“Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs,” said Haley,
thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.
“Heaps on 'em,” said Sam, triumphantly; “thar 's
Bruno — he 's a roarer! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger
of us keeps a pup of some natur or uther.”
“Poh!” said Haley, — and he said something else, too,
with regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered,
“I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way.”
“But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much
know he don't) for trackin' out niggers.”
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look
of earnest and desperate simplicity.
“Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect
they 's the kind, though they han't never had no practice.
They 's far dogs, though, at most anything, if you 'd get
'em started. Here, Bruno,” he called, whistling to the lumbering
Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously
toward them.
“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble
up now.”
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to
tickle Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out
into a laugh, greatly to Haley's indignation, who made a cut
at him with his riding-whip.
“I 's 'stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful gravity.
“This yer 's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer must n't be a
makin' game. This yer an't no way to help Mas'r.”
“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley,
decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate.
“I know the way of all of 'em, — they makes tracks for the
underground.”
“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat 's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits
de thing right in de middle. Now, der 's two roads to de
river, — de dirt road and der pike, — which Mas'r mean to
take?”
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing
this new geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he
said, by a vehement reiteration.
“Cause,” said Sam, “I 'd rather be 'clined to 'magine
that Lizy 'd take de dirt road, bein' it 's the least travelled.”
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and
naturally inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought
up by this view of the case.
“If yer warn't both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he
said, contemplatively, as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken
appeared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little
behind, and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of
falling off his horse, while Sam's face was immovably composed
into the most doleful gravity.
“Course,” said Sam, “Mas'r can do as he 'd ruther; go
de straight road, if Mas'r thinks best, — it 's all one to us.
deridedly.”
“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley,
thinking aloud, and not minding Sam's remark.
“Dar an't no sayin',” said Sam; “gals is pecular; they
never does nothin' ye thinks they will; mose gen'lly the contrar.
Gals is nat'lly made contrary; and so, if you thinks
they 've gone one road, it is sartin you 'd better go t' other,
and then you 'll be sure to find 'em. Now, my private 'pinion
is, Lizy took der dirt road; so I think we 'd better take
de straight one.”
This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem
to dispose Haley particularly to the straight road; and he
announced decidedly that he should go the other, and asked
Sam when they should come to it.
“A little piece ahead,” said Sam, giving a wink to Andy
with the eye which was on Andy's side of the head; and he
added, gravely, “but I 've studded on de matter, and I 'm
quite clar we ought not to go dat ar way. I nebber been
over it no way. It 's despit lonesome, and we might lose our
way, — whar we 'd come to, de Lord only knows.”
“Nevertheless,” said Haley, “I shall go that way.”
“Now I think on 't, I think I hearn 'em tell that dat ar
road was all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't
it, Andy?”
Andy was n't certain; he 'd only “hearn tell” about that
road, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly noncommittal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities
between lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it
lay in favor of the dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the
thing he thought he perceived was involuntary on Sam's part
down to a desperate lying on second thoughts, as being unwilling
to implicate Eliza.
When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged
briskly into it, followed by Sam and Andy.
Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly
been a thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many
years after the laying of the new pike. It was open for about
an hour's ride, and after that it was cut across by various
farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well, —
indeed, the road had been so long closed up, that Andy had
never heard of it. He therefore rode along with an air of
dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferating occasionally
that 't was “desp't rough, and bad for Jerry's foot.”
“Now, I jest give yer warning,” said Haley, “I know
yer; yer won't get me to turn off this yer road, with all yer
fussin' — so you shet up!”
“Mas'r will go his own way!” said Sam, with rueful submission,
at the same time winking most portentously to Andy,
whose delight was now very near the explosive point.
Sam was in wonderful spirits, — professed to keep a very
brisk look-out, — at one time exclaiming that he saw “a gal's
bonnet” on the top of some distant eminence, or calling to
Andy “if that thar was n't `Lizy' down in the hollow;”
always making these exclamations in some rough or craggy
part of the road, where the sudden quickening of speed was a
special inconvenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping
Haley in a state of constant commotion.
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party
made a precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard
belonging to a large farming establishment. Not a soul was
in sight, all the hands being employed in the fields; but, as
road, it was evident that their journey in that direction had
reached a decided finale.
“Wan't dat ar what I telled Mas'r?” said Sam, with an
air of injured innocence. “How does strange gentleman
spect to know more about a country dan de natives born and
raised?”
“You rascal!” said Haley, “you knew all about this.”
“Did n't I tell yer I know'd, and yer would n't believe
me? I telled Mas'r 't was all shet up, and fenced up, and I
did n't spect we could get through, — Andy heard me.”
It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man
had to pocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and
all three faced to the right about, and took up their line of
march for the highway.
In consequence of all the various delays, it was about
three-quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to
sleep in the village tavern that the party came riding into
the same place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking
out in another direction, when Sam's quick eye caught a
glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind.
At this crisis, Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and
uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation, which startled
her at once; she drew suddenly back; the whole train swept
by the window, round to the front door.
A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one
moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the
river. She caught her child, and sprang down the steps
towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her, just as
she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing himself
from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was
after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment
moment brought her to the water's edge. Right on behind
they came; and, nerved with strength such as God gives
only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, she
vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the
raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap — impossible to
anything but madness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and
Andy, instinctively cried out, and lifted up their hands, as
she did it.
The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted
pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid
there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate energy
she leaped to another and still another cake; — stumbling —
leaping — slipping — springing upwards again! Her shoes
are gone — her stockings cut from her feet — while blood
marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till
dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, and a man helping
her up the bank.
“Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!” said the man,
with an oath.
Eliza recognized the voice and face of a man who owned a
farm not far from her old home.
“O, Mr. Symmes! — save me — do save me — do hide
me!” said Eliza.
“Why, what 's this?” said the man. “Why, if 'tan't
Shelby's gal!”
“My child! — this boy! — he 'd sold him! There is his
Mas'r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “O,
Mr. Symmes, you 've got a little boy!”
“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly,
drew her up the steep bank. “Besides, you 're a right brave
gal. I like grit, wherever I see it.”
When they had gained the top of the bank, the man
paused.
“I 'd be glad to do something for ye,” said he; “but
then there 's nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is
to tell ye to go thar,” said he, pointing to a large white
house which stood by itself, off the main street of the village.
“Go thar; they 're kind folks. Thar 's no kind o' danger
but they 'll help you, — they 're up to all that sort o' thing.”
“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza, earnestly.
“No 'casion, no 'casion in the world,” said the man.
“What I 've done 's of no 'count.”
“And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell any one!”
“Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for?
In course not,” said the man. “Come, now, go along like a
likely, sensible gal, as you are. You 've arnt your liberty,
and you shall have it, for all me.”
The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked
firmly and swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her.
“Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighborly
thing in the world; but what 's a feller to do? If he
catches one of my gals in the same fix, he 's welcome to pay
back. Somehow I never could see no kind o' critter a strivin'
and pantin', and trying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arter
'em, and go agin 'em. Besides, I don't see no kind of
'casion for me to be hunter and catcher for other folks,
neither.”
So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not
been instructed in his constitutional relations, and consequently
was betrayed into acting in a sort of Christianized
manner, which, if he had been better situated and more
enlightened, he would not have been left to do.
Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene,
blank, inquiring look on Sam and Andy.
“That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business,” said Sam.
“The gal 's got seven devils in her, I believe!” said
Haley. “How like a wildcat she jumped!”
“Wal, now,” said Sam, scratching his head, “I hope
Mas'r 'll 'scuse us tryin' dat ar road. Don't think I feel
spry enough for dat ar, no way!” and Sam gave a hoarse
chuckle.
“You laugh!” said the trader, with a growl.
“Lord bless you, Mas'r, I could n't help it, now,” said
Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul.
“She looked so curi's, a leapin' and springin' — ice a crackin'
— and only to hear her, — plump! ker chunk! ker splash!
Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam and Andy
laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.
“I 'll make ye laugh t'other side yer mouths!” said the
trader, laying about their heads with his riding-whip.
Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on
their horses before he was up.
“Good-evening, Mas'r!” said Sam, with much gravity.
“I berry much spect Missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r
Haley won't want us no longer. Missis would n't hear of our
ridin' the critters over Lizy's bridge to-night;” and, with a
facetious poke into Andy's ribs, he started off, followed by the
latter, at full speed, — their shouts of laughter coming faintly
on the wind.
| CHAPTER VII.
THE MOTHER'S STRUGGLE. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |