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I ’gin ter think mehsef dat cat uh witch,

Fuh in de swamp ef it is dark ez pitch,

An he cum out! de branch it looks so bright

De brabest niggah’s obercome wid fright.

I ’spises cats, an’ fuh dem hab no use,

But it’s mos’ time I’d ended wid uh buse,

Fuh when I think erboutin’ “Romps mustake”

Dis haid ub mine cummences soon ter ache.

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Hayland Meadow was some ten miles in length, and on the upper half, used for growing timothy and for grazing, here and there stood aristocratic-looking trees—poplar, black-walnut, majestic oaks, imposing and graceful elms. The lower half was thickly wooded with smaller trees of many varieties, among which flourished the persimmon. Nature had with generous hands festooned many of the trees with wild grapevines, and when these were in bloom and twilight dews fell upon their blossoms, they filled that meadow with a delicious fragrance, sweet enough for Eden; every dewdrop in the dell seemed perfumed.

Through this vale, over mossy stones and snowy pebbles, chattered and meandered a crystal creek which joined other streams and emptied at Hayland marsh into Miles River.