I.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE ANIMALS.

The story of how Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla found their way into Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country has been set forth, and many of the tales they heard there have been told. All of this matter has been put into a book, where the curious may now find it. This being so, it is not necessary to go over it again. Imitation is bad enough, but repetition is worse. It is enough to say, therefore, that these children whose names have been mentioned lived on a large plantation in Middle Georgia, in that part of the country where cotton grows, where the mocking-birds sing in the orchards, and where the roses bloom in the open air from April to November.

There is nothing tropical or even semi-tropical in Middle Georgia. The trees and shrubs and all of the wild flowers are much the same as those that grow in New England. The summers are not so hot nor the winters so long and cold in Middle Georgia as they are farther to the north; but warm weather lasts longer, and that is the reason that cotton and sugar-cane and watermelons can be raised in Middle Georgia in the open air.

The plantation on which the children lived appeared to be just like all the other plantations round about, but the youngsters had already found out that it was entirely different from the rest in some respects. So far as they knew, and they had made careful inquiries, there was no Mr. Thimblefinger on any one of the neighboring plantations, and there was no road leading from any other plantation to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

On Sundays when there was a big meeting going on at Mt. Zion church, and the congregation carried dinner in hamper baskets, Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla (their negro nurse and playmate) took pains to inquire among the children they met there if any of them had ever seen Mr. Thimblefinger. The reply was that they had not only never seen him, but had never even heard of him before. This made Buster John feel more important than ever, and Sweetest Susan said she was surprised and sorry that the other children should have failed to see Mr. Thimblefinger, and they so near his queer country, too. As for Drusilla, she declared that it made no difference, anyhow, “Kaze ef dey wuz ter see ’im wid der naked eyes dey wouldn’t b’lieve dey seed ’im.” But the neighbor-children said nothing, they simply stared at one another and concluded that Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla were trying to make fun of them.

If the neighbor-children had been wise, they would have asked some questions about Mr. Thimblefinger, and then they would have found out that the Abercrombie place, as it was called, was different from all the other plantations they had ever heard of, being the scene of some of Mr. Thimblefinger’s performances, and containing within its boundaries the gateway to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, which lies next door to the world.

Those who have taken the trouble to read the book in which the stories told by Mr. Thimblefinger and his friends are partly set forth will remember that when Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were on the point of returning home, they were asked if they knew a man named Aaron. To which Buster John replied that he ought to know Aaron, since he was foreman of the field-hands. Whereupon Buster John was told that Aaron was the Son of Ben Ali, and knew the language of animals. “If you want to learn this language,” said Mr. Rabbit, “go to Aaron, Son of Ben Ali, take him by his left hand, bend the thumb back, and with your right forefinger make a cross mark on it. Should Aaron pay no attention to it, repeat the sign. The third time he will know it.”

But the minds of the children were so busy thinking of what they had seen and heard that they forgot all about the matter. Once when Buster John chanced to remember what he had been told, Aaron happened to be ill in bed. Another time, when the children determined to find out something about the language of the animals, they found that Aaron was away from home. He had gone with the wagons to Augusta, one hundred miles away, to sell the year’s crop of cotton. Thus, in one way and another, Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were many long months older when they sought and found Aaron in his cabin than they were when they made their last visit to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

Now Aaron was the most remarkable slave in all the country round, not because he was tall and finely formed, nor because he carried himself as proudly as a military officer, but because he had a well-shaped head, a sharp black eye, thin lips, and a nose prominent, but not flat. Another remarkable feature was his hair, which, instead of being coarse and kinky, was fine, thick, wavy, glossy, and as black as jet.

The negroes on the place seemed to be very much afraid of him. This would not have been strange if Aaron had been an old man; negroes always stand in awe of those who are very old; but he was not above forty, and seemed to be even younger. There were many stories current about Aaron, which the negroes told to each other in whispers when their cabin fires burned low. One was that he was a conjurer, and in league with the “old boy.” This was because Aaron refused to associate with his fellow servants on terms of equality, and would allow them to take no liberties with him.

Another story was that he was of Indian blood. But he had no Indian characteristic, except that of serenity. His color was dark brown. He was both quick in his movements and fluent in his speech, but his talk was different from that of the negroes. Still another story about Aaron was that he was very dangerous. It was whispered that he had killed several people, a number of women and children among them. This story grew out of the fact that he alone could manage Timoleon, the big black stallion. This horse, wild in his ways and fierce of temper, was as gentle as a dog in Aaron’s hands, and followed him about as the chicken follows the mother hen.

[Illustration: BUSTER JOHN WENT FORWARD AND KNOCKED]

It was one Saturday, when Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla went to Aaron’s cabin. On the plantation there was a half-holiday every Saturday, if crop work was not pressing, and sometimes when the corn was laid by the negroes had a whole holiday. This was the case now. The children saw Aaron go into his cabin and half close the door after him. Buster John went forward and knocked. There was no invitation to “come in,” as there would have been at any other cabin in the negro quarters. Instead, Aaron came to the door, pulled it open and looked out with something like a frown on his face. But he smiled when he saw the children.

“Oh, you?” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t know who. Jump in!”

There was a step lacking among those leading to the door, so he seized Buster John by the hand and swung him into the room. Then he lifted Sweetest Susan a little more carefully, but ignored Drusilla altogether. This was not regarded by Drusilla as a slight, for she was not anxious to be touched by him. She was not even anxious to go into the cabin, but her curiosity was more powerful than her vague fears, and so, after a while, she followed the children in.

Aaron, still smiling, lifted Buster John high in the air. “Le’ me see; like enough you’d weigh ninety poun’.”

“Eighty-seven,” replied Buster John.

“Heavy! heavy!” exclaimed Aaron. “One time I toted your uncle all night long. He was sixteen-year old and weighed fifty poun’.”

“That was Uncle Crotchet, who is dead,” said Buster John.

“Yes. Folks named him Little Crotchet,” Aaron remarked.

“That was ever so long ago,” suggested Sweetest Susan.

“Fifteen year,” said Aaron.

Meanwhile Buster John pretended to be playing with Aaron’s left hand. Finally he seized the thumb, bent it back as far as it would go, and made a cross-mark on it. Aaron playfully jerked his hand away, but Buster John caught it again, bent the thumb back and again made the cross-mark. Apparently Aaron paid no attention to this, for he failed to take his hand away. Once more, and for the third time, Buster John bent the thumb back and made the cross-mark. At once Aaron put him gently aside and went to the door and closed it. Then he turned to Buster John and said in a whisper:—

“How come? Where you been? Who told you?”

Buster John was so much surprised that he hesitated a moment, and then began to reply in a tone of voice somewhat louder than usual.

“Sh-sh! talk low!” whispered Aaron. “Did somebody tell you to do that?”

“Yes,” said Buster John.

“Round anywhere by the spring?” Aaron was very cautious in putting his questions. Apparently he wanted to make himself perfectly sure.

“Yes,” cried Sweetest Susan. “The spring is the gate, you know.”

“She, too?” asked Aaron, nodding his head toward Drusilla.

“Of course,” said Buster John.

“I dunner how come I can’t go whar de yuthers does,” remarked Drusilla.

“All right—all right!” exclaimed Aaron. Then he counted them. “One—two—three! And now you’ve come to me. What for?”

“We want to learn how to talk with the animals,” said Buster John.

Aaron, who had been frowning a little, seemed to be relieved. The frown disappeared.

“Oho,” he cried, “is that all? ’Tain’t much, yet it’s a heap. You’ll hear lots of sassy talk. Sometimes, maybe, you’ll have to stop up your ears.”

“We won’t mind that,” remarked Buster John.

“Maybe not,” said Aaron. Then he went to a large wooden chest that sat in the corner, unlocked it, and presently brought forth a bundle of red cloth. This he placed on the floor and sat beside it, motioning the children to sit on the floor in a circle around the bundle. He unrolled the cloth until he came to an oval-shaped mirror. The frame was heavy and richly carved, and shone as bright as new silver shines.

Aaron placed the beautiful mirror carefully on the floor, face up. Then he threw the red cloth over his head and over the children’s heads. If any one had been peeping through the chinks of the chimney he would have been very much puzzled by what he saw and heard. He would have seen the red cloth bobbing up and down as if those underneath were bowing their heads back and forth, and he would have heard muffled exclamations of wonder, the loudest of all being Drusilla’s involuntary cry:—

“Don’t dat beat all!”

[Illustration: AARON SHOWING THE MIRROR]

The children never told what happened under the cloth, nor what they saw in the mirror. When Aaron rose to his feet, the cloth still over his head, he made a few movements with his arms, and lo! there was the bundle in his hands with the mirror wrapped in its folds.

Sweetest Susan looked at Buster John. “Wasn’t it easy?” she cried. “Did you ever see anything as bright”—She would have said more, but Aaron touched her gently on the arm and put his finger on his lips. At that moment a gander in the spring lot began to scream.

“What did he say?” asked Aaron, looking at Drusilla.

“He say, ‘I’m gwine atter water—water—who wanter go?’”

Aaron seemed satisfied with the answer. He replaced the bundle in the chest, turned the key and then leaned against the rude mantel shelf he had nailed over his fireplace.

“You think I’m a nigger, don’t you?” He turned to Buster John.

“Of course,” said the youngster without hesitation. “What else are you?”

“I’ll show you.” From his pocket Aaron drew a little package—something wrapped in soft leather and securely tied. It was a memorandum book. Opening this small book, Aaron held it toward Buster John, saying “What’s here?”

“It looks like pothooks,” replied the boy, frankly.

“Ain’t a word in it I can’t read,” said Aaron.

“Read some of it, please,” pleaded Sweetest Susan.

Thereupon Aaron began to read from the book in a strange tongue, the tone of his voice taking on modulations the children had never heard before.

“I ain’t never hear no jabber like dat,” said Drusilla.

“What sort of talk is it?” asked Buster John.

“’Tain’t no creetur talk,” remarked Drusilla; “I know dat mighty well.”

“It’s the talk of Ben Ali,” said Aaron—“Ben Ali, my daddy. Every word here was put down by him.”

“Why, I’ve heard grandpa talk about uncle Ben Ali,” suggested Buster John.

Aaron nodded. “Many a time. Your grandpa, my master, tried to buy my daddy, but Ben Ali was worth too much. I went to see him with my master twice a year till he died. He was no nigger.”

“What then?” Buster John asked.

“Arab—man of the desert—slave hunter—all put down here,” said Aaron, tapping the little book with his finger.

The children were anxious to hear more about Ben Ali, the Arab—Ben Ali the slave hunter, who had himself become a slave. There was not much to tell, but that little was full of interest as Aaron told it, sitting in his door, the children on the steps below him. For the most part the book was a diary of events that had happened to Ben Ali after he landed in this country, being written in one of the desert dialects; but the first few pages told how the Arab chief happened to be a slave.

Ben Ali was the leader of a band that made constant war on some of the African tribes in the Senegambian region. With their captives, this band of Arabs frequently pushed on to the Guinea coast and there sold them to the slave traders. These excursions continued until, on one occasion, the Arabs chanced to clash with a war-loving tribe, which was also engaged in plundering and raiding its neighbors. The meeting was unexpected to the Arabs, but not to the Africans. The Arabs who were left alive were led captive to the coast and there sold with other prisoners to slave traders. Among them was Ben Ali, who was then not more than thirty years old. With the rest, he was brought to America, where he was sold to a Virginian planter, fetching a very high price. Along with him, in the same ship, was an Arab girl, and she was also bought by the planter. Nothing was said in the diary in regard to the history of this girl, except that she became Ben Ali’s wife, and bore him a son and a daughter. The son was Aaron, so named. The daughter died while yet a child.

These things Aaron told the children, little by little and in a rambling way, begging Buster John and Sweetest Susan to say nothing about the matter to any other person, and threatening Drusilla with uplifted finger that if she opened her mouth about it he would put “the misery” on her. Drusilla had seen negroes who were the victims of “the misery”—which is the plantation name of the spell that conjurers put on people, and she declared over and over again that she wouldn’t tell—“crossing her heart” to show that she meant what she said.

“Can we talk with the animals sure enough—the horses, the cows, the sheep, the dogs, and the hogs?” asked Buster John.

Aaron smiled as he answered: “A little bit now, more pretty soon. The sheep—I don’t know. Sheep don’t talk much around me. But the others are talking all the time. You must watch all the motions they make, shutting the eye, switching the tail, flopping the ear, stamping the foot—all part of the talk.”

“When shall we try?” asked Buster John.

“Right after dinner,” replied Aaron; “we’ll go see old Timoleon.”

“Timoleon!” cried Sweetest Susan, in dismay.

Aaron laughed and nodded his head. “We’ll take him out the stable and see what he says. Timoleon good talker.”

“Oh, I’m afraid to go!” cried Sweetest Susan. “Mamma told me never to go near Timoleon’s stable.”

“I’ll tell you de plain trufe,” said Drusilla vehemently, “I wouldn’t go up dar in dat fiel’ whar dat hoss is—I wouldn’t go dar, not fer money. Ain’t I done see ’im jump on a nigger man an’ tar de cloze off’n ’im? Uh-uh! you don’t ketch me up dar!”

“Little Missy will go with me,” remarked Aaron. Then he pointed to Drusilla. “You go or stay, but, look out! No talk!”

“I’ll set on de fence an’ see de hoss eat ’em up,” suggested Drusilla, by way of a compromise.

“She’ll go if I do,” said Sweetest Susan.

“You mus’n’t be agwine, den,” was Drusilla’s comment.

Aaron looked at the girl so severely that she shrank back.

“Don’t mind Drusilla,” said Sweetest Susan. “She doesn’t mean anything she says, except when she asks for something to eat.”

“After dinner we’ll go see Timoleon. If he seems like he’s in good humor,” Aaron explained, “we’ll bring him out. If he has been fretting, we’ll let him stay.”

This was perfectly satisfactory to the children, especially to Buster John.

They went to play, but they only pretended to play. All they could do was to discuss what they had already seen and heard, and what they hoped to see and hear. Time seemed to pass very slowly. They sat down and talked, and then walked about and talked, but still it was not dinner time. They would have become very impatient indeed had not Buster John chanced to hear the big gray rooster call out to the yellow hen:—

“Run, run, run! Here’s a bug!”

The yellow hen went running, but just as she reached the gray rooster he turned and walked away with great dignity, saying: “Come on, let’s go; come on.”

“I might have known it,” complained the yellow hen; “you are like all the rest of the roosters. A respectable hen can’t depend on anything you say.”

“Come on, come on,” said the big gray rooster, strutting along, “I was just trying to get you away from that one-eyed dominicker. He’s not fit company for you to associate with.”

“Hoity-toity!” cried the yellow hen. “And didn’t I see you this morning scratching your toes off for the Friesland pullet?”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan laughed heartily at this, but Drusilla was very serious.

“I dunno which de wuss,” she cried, “chickens er folks.”

After that, time no longer hung heavy on the children’s hands. When the dinner bell rang, Buster John and Sweetest Susan were on hand promptly, with their faces washed and their hair combed. They were so anxious to get through their dinner that they ate rapidly, and this attracted the attention of their mother, who wanted to know what they had been doing to make them so hungry. The only satisfaction she got was a request to “Please, ma’m, make haste and have some dinner fixed for Drusilla.”

This was very soon done, and in a little while the children were ready to go with Aaron to see Timoleon.