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low cot, lies a little babe
asleep. A scarlet honeysuckle of wild and luxuriant growth shades the
uncurtained and unsashed window; and the humming-birds, flitting
among its brilliant blossoms, murmur a constant, gentle lullaby for the
infant sleeper. See, its skin is not so dark but that we may clearly trace
the blue veins underlying it; the lips, half parted, are lovely as a
rosebud; and the soft, silky curls are dewy as the flowers on this June
morning. A dimpled arm and one naked foot have escaped from the gay
patch-work quilt, which some fond hand has closely tucked about the
little form; and the breath comes and goes quickly, as if the folded eyes
were feasting on visions of beauty and delight. Dear little one!
"We should see the spirits ringing Round thee, were the clouds away;
'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing In the silent-seeming clay."
Though that child-heart beats beneath a despised skin, though it has its
resting-place in a hovel, the angels may be there. Their loving, pitying
natures shrink not from poverty, but stoop with heavenly sympathy to

the mean abodes of suffering and misery.
A soft step steals in through the half-opened door, across the room, and
a fervent kiss is laid on the little velvet cheek.
Who is the intruder? Ah, who cares to watch and smile over a sleeping
infant, save its mother? Here, in this rude cabin, is a mother's
heart,--tender with its holy affections, and all aglow with delight, as she
gazes on the beautiful vision before her.
We must call the mother Annie. She had but one name, for she was a
slave. Like the horse or the dog, she must have some appellation by
which, as an individual, she might be designated; a sort of appendage
on which to hang, as it were, the commands, threats, and severities that
from time to time might be administered; but farther than that, for her
own personal uses, why did she need a name? She was not a person,
only a thing,--a piece of property belonging to the Carroll estate.
But for all that, she was a woman and a mother. God had sealed her
such, and who could obliterate his impress, or rob her of the crown he
had placed about her head,--a crown of thorns though it were? Her
heart was as full of all sweet motherly instincts as if she had been born
in a more favored condition; and the swarthy complexion of her child
made it no less dear or lovely in her sight; while a consciousness of its
degradation and sad future served only to deepen and intensify her love.
She knew what her child was born to suffer; but affection thrust far
away the evil day, that she might not lose the happiness of the present.
The babe was hers,-- her own,--and for long years yet would be her joy
and comfort.
Annie had other children, but they were wild, romping boys, grown out
of their babyhood, and so very naturally left to run and take care of
themselves. She had not ceased to love them, however, and would have
manifested it more, but for the idol, the little girl baby, which had now
for nearly a year nestled in her arms, and completely possessed her
heart. When they were hungry, they came like chickens about her
cabin-door, and being mistress of the kitchen, she always had plenty of
good, substantial crumbs for them; and when they were sick, she

nursed them with pitying care; but this was about all the attention they
received.
The baby engrossed every leisure moment she could command. Many
times a day she would pause in her work to caress it. She would seat it
upon the floor, amid a perfect bed of honeysuckle blossoms, and bring
the bright orange gourds that grew around the door for its amusement.
Sometimes a broken toy or a shining trinket, which she had picked up
in the house, or a smooth pebble from the yard, would be added to the
treasures of the little one. Then she would come with food, the
soft-boiled rice, or the sweet corn gruel, she knew so well how to
prepare; and often, often she would steal in, as now, out of pure
fondness, to watch its peaceful slumbers.
"Named the pickaninny yet?" asked the master one day, as he passed
the cabin, and carelessly looked in upon the mother and child amusing
themselves within. "'Tis time you did; 'most time to turn her off now,
you see."
"Oh, Massa, don't say dat word," answered the woman, imploringly.
"'Pears I couldn't b'ar to turn her off yet,--couldn't live without her, no
ways. Reckon I'll call her Tidy; dat ar's my sister's name, and she's got
dat same sweet look