I hed my hand on my gun this time,
so I got a little closter than afore. But, by hookey, he got away from
me ag’in, nor did he cum back. “I could hardly wait fer the next night ter cum round. At the same time
I wuz on hand good an’ early, jes’ as it begun ter git dark, an’ the
trees looked like long spooks a-stretchin’ out their arms. I looked
terward the clift, an’ thar he sot a-markin’ an’ a-scratchin’ on the
rock with his fingers an’ still looking sad. Now, this bein’ the third
time, I kinder got bold, an’ I went a little closter, an’ says:

“‘Sandy, wha-what’s the ma-mat-matter with you? Didn’t the boys do the
plantin’ right fer you?’

“Then as luck would hev it I thought of sumthin’ else right quick, an’ I
said:

“‘Or is it the dust you hev hid whar yer sittin’?’

“Waal, he looked up then, an’ the happiest smile cum ter his face, an’
all ter once he disappeared ag’in. An’ since then I hev sot here an’
guarded the place till the right one cums along ter claim it. “Let’s see. What did you say yer name wuz?”

“Pardon me. I thought I had told you. My name is John Willett Barr.”

“Polly, oh, Polly! Cum hyar, gal. What wuz Sandy’s full name? I plum
fergot.”

“What you want ter know fer?” she asked. “I ain’t a-goin’ ter tell you
now. Thet’s my own secret.”

“Cum, cum, gal. Tell me ter once, or it won’t be he’lthy fer you.”

“Waal, then,” she answered stubbornly, “it’s John Willett Barr.”

At her reply the younger man’s face grew deathly pale, and he started up
from his chair, but Kit thrust him back into his seat, saying:

“Bring me the letter, Polly.”

“What are you goin’ ter do with it, pa?” she inquired, cautiously. “I promised old Sandy on my oath ter keep it till the right one cums
erlong ter claim it, an’ I mean ter keep my word. The right one is here,
gal. Thar he sits. So trot thet letter out, an’ don’t parley long with
me if you knows when yer well off.”

Polly stared at the younger man in utter bewilderment for a moment. Then, turning slowly, she stepped quietly into the cabin after the
precious document; an unusual gleam of joy lighted up her face and a
suppressed excitement shone in her eyes. Under her breath she said:
“Sumhow er ruther I felt he wuz the right one.”

Too truly, John Barr realized in that painful moment that he whom he
sought was now dead to him; that the father from whom he had been parted
so many years was sleeping that long, dreamless sleep in the clay mound
on the hillside, which marked his last resting place. As he turned to
look at the face of old, honest Kit, who had been his father’s friend
during those long years of forced exile, a happy smile lit up the old
miner’s rugged features as he pointed with his finger to the rock cliff
near the old spruce vine, and said, in an exultant, trembling voice:

“Thar he be, stranger--jes’ as I hev seen him many a night--yer dad--my
pard--pore old Sandy!”

With an eager voice John Barr sprang forward, and the mountains echoed
and re-echoed the plaintive cry of “Father! Father!” But his
outstretched arms clasped only emptiness and the darkening shadows of
the rapidly approaching night. THE GHOSTS OF RED CREEK. BY S. T.


To the northward of Mississippi City and its neighbor, Handsboro, there
extends a tract of pine forest for miles with but few habitations
scattered through it. Black and Red Creeks, with their numerous
branches, drain this region into the Pascagoula River to the eastward. With the swamps of Pascagoula as a refuge, and the luxuriant and
unfrequented bottoms of Red and Black Creeks to browse upon, there are
few choicer spots for deer. Knowing this fact, a small party of
gentlemen on the day before a crisp, cold Christmas, started from
Handsboro in a large four-wheeled wagon for a thirty-mile drive into
this wilderness of pine and a week’s sport after the deer. The guide was
Jim Caruthers, a true woodsman, and the driver and general factotum, a
jolly negro named Jack Lyons, than whom no one could make a better
hoe-cake and cook a venison steak. His laugh could be heard a quarter of
a mile, and his good nature was as expansive as the range of the
laughter. The usual experiences of a hunting camp were heartily enjoyed during
the first days of this life out of doors; but its cream did not rise
until about the fifth night, when, from familiar intercourse, Jack Lyons
became loquacious, and after the day’s twenty or twenty-five-mile walk,
would spin yarns in front of the camp fire, which brought forgetfulness
of fatigue. The night before New Year’s was intensely cold. The cold north wind of
the afternoon had subsided at sunset, and only a gust now and again
touched the musical leaves of the pines, making them vibrant with that
mournful score of nature’s operas which even maestros have failed to
catch. In front of two new and white tents two sportsmen reclined at length
within reach of the warmth of the fire, while opposite them rested at
ease the guide and the worthy Jack Lyons. Wearied with the day’s chase four stanch hounds--Ringwood, Rose, Jet and
Boxer--were dreaming of future quarry. The firelight brought out in bright relief the trunks of the tall pines
like cathedral columns, and sparkling through the leafy dome overhead
the scintillating stars glistened with a diamond brightness. A silence
which added its influence to the scene rested about the borders of the
creek below, and gave more effect to the story of the veteran teamster
than perhaps it otherwise would have had. “If de deer run down de creek,” said old Jack, smacking his lips over a
carefully prepared brewing of the real Campbellton punch, “wese boun’ to
see fun to-morrer, for dey’ll take us down thar by de old Gibbet’s
place. In daylight dere’s no place like it, but after nightfall, you bet
you wouldn’t catch dis nigger thar.”

Old Jack was naturally asked why he didn’t care about visiting the
Gibbet’s place at night. Asking to be excused until he filled his pipe,
the silence was unbroken until his return. He piled on more pine knots
and commenced:

“You kno’, gemmen, dat when de gunboats was in de sound we folks had to
travel way back hyar on dese roads outun de range of deir big guns. I
was ’gaged by Mr. Harrison in hauling salt from de factory at
Mississippi City, on de beach ober to Mobile, an’ I had been making a
trip ebery week or so. Dis back country road was neber thought ob by de
Federals, an’ we had good times long de way, no shells and no shootin’. “De nite, gemmen, I’se speakin’ of was a Friday, dat yous all knows is
unlucky. Well, you see, I hitched up Betsie an’ Rose in de lead, an’ ole
Fox an’ Blossom at de pole, an’ takes in de biggest load of salt dat
team eber carried. I starts out an’ crosses de Biloxi Riber at Han’sboro
jes’ as de moon was goin’ down. Yes, boss, dese roads weren’t no better
den now, an’ de rain had made ’em mighty rough when yer come to de
holes.