Plantation Sketches | Page 2

the small church, and other minor buildings, looked like a

small village beneath the great elms and oaks.
Your grandfather's principal plantation, and our winter home, was
Runiroi, in Bertie county. The others were "The Lower Plantation" and
"Over the Swamp." At Runiroi we lived and called ourselves at home,
and of it I have preserved the clearest recollection and the fondest
memories.
From Kehukee bluff, which we usually visited while waiting for the
ferryman on our return journey after the summer's absence, the
plantation could be seen stretching away into the distance, hemmed in
by the flat-topped cypresses. From there we had a view of our distant
dwelling, gleaming white in the sunlight and standing in a green oasis
of trees and grass, all looking wonderfully small amid the expanse of
flat fields around it. Apart as I now am from the restless, never-ending
push of life, when neither men nor women have time for leisure, when
even pleasure and amusement are reduced to a business calculation as
to how much may be squeezed into a given time, I think it might
perhaps calm down some of the nervous restlessness that I perceive in
my dear children and grandchildren if they could, for once, stand there
in the soft November sunshine. The splendor of the light is veiled in a
golden haze, the brown fields bask in the soft radiance and seem to
quiver in the heat, while the ceaseless murmur of the great river is like
a cradle song to a sleepy child; the rattle of the old ferryman's chain and
the drowsy squeak of his long sweeps seem even to augment the
stillness. The trees along the banks appear to lack the energy to hang
out the brilliant reds and purples of autumn, but tint their leaves with
the soft shades of palest yellow, and these keep dropping and floating
away, while the long gray moss waves dreamily in the stillness.
The house at Runiroi was a comfortable, old, rambling structure, in a
green yard and flower garden, not ugly, but quite innocent of any
pretensions at comeliness. Neither was there, to many, a bit of
picturesque beauty in the flat surroundings; and yet this very flatness
did lend a charm peculiar to itself. My eyes ever found a delight in its
purple distances and in the great, broad-armed trees marking the
graceful curves of the river. The approach from the public road, which

followed the bank of the river, was through the "willow lane," between
deep-cut ditches, which kept the roadway well drained unless the river
overspread its banks, when the lane was often impassable for days. In
the springtime, when the tender green boughs of the willows were
swayed by the breeze, it was a lovely spot, and a favorite resort of the
children.
I was so young a bride, only seventeen, when I was taken to our winter
home, and so inexperienced, that I felt no dread whatever of my new
duties as mistress. The household comforts of my childhood's home
had seemed to come so spontaneously that I never thought of processes,
and naturally felt rather nonplussed when brought into contact with
realities. The place had for years been merely a sort of camping-out
place for your great-grandfather, who liked to spend a part of the winter
there; so the house was given over to servants who made him
comfortable, but who took little heed of anything else.
I recollect my antipathy to a certain old press which stood in the back
hall. The upper part was filled with books. In the under cupboard,
Minerva kept pies, gingerbread, plates of butter, etc. The outside
looked very dim and dusty. I could not bear to look at it, but knew not
how to remedy its defects. I know now that it was a handsome old
piece, which a furniture-lover would delight in. However, my youthful
appetite did not scorn Minerva's gingerbread, and, as I had many lonely
hours to get through with as best I could, I would mount the highest
chair that I could find, and ransack the old musty volumes in search of
amusement. The collection consisted chiefly of antiquated medical
works, some tracts, etc., but once, to my delight, I unearthed two of
Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, which were indeed a treasure trove; one of
them was "Gaston de Blondeville," which I thought beautiful. I have
regretted that I did not take care of it, for I have never seen another
copy.
Minerva was a woman of pretty good sense, but of slatternly habits.
She had been so long without a lady to guide her that her original
training was either forgotten or entirely disregarded. Once, when
starting to Conacanarra for Christmas, I charged her to take advantage

of the fine weather to give the