after the familiar manner of the living, and his delirious dreams showed the shifting, faded pictures that renewed themselves for the last time on his wasting memory. It must have been that he was once more amidst the scenes of his active farm life, for his broken snatches of talk ran thus:
"Come, boys, get your cradles! Look where the sun is! You are late getting to work this morning. That is the finest field of wheat in the county. Be careful about the bundles! Make them the same size and tie them tight. That swath is too wide, and you don't hold your cradle right, Tom.
"Sell Peter! Sell Peter Cotton! No, sir! You might buy me some day and work me in your cotton field: but as long as he's mine, you can't buy Peter, and you can't buy any of my negroes.
"Boys! boys! If you don't work faster, you won't finish this field to-day. You'd better go in the shade and rest now. The sun's very hot. Don't drink too much ice water. There's a jug of whisky in the fence corner. Give them a good dram around, and tell them to work slow till the sun gets lower."
Once during the night a sweet smile played over his features as he repeated a few words that were part of an old rustic song and dance. Arranged, not as they now came broken and incoherent from his lips, but as he once had sung them, they were as follows:
"O Sister Phoebe! How merry were we
When we sat under the juniper-tree.
The juniper-tree, heigho!
Put this hat on your head! Keep your head warm:
Take a sweet kiss! It will do you no harm.
Do you no harm, I know!"
After this he sank into a quieter sleep, but soon stirred with a look of intense pain.
