It was old "Maum" Sally who uttered this exclamation as she came out of her kitchen, drying her hands on her apron, and warmly greeting one of the three boys who stood just outside the door.

"Is you done come to visit de folks? Well, I do declar'!"

"Now, Maum Sally," replied Ned Cooke, "stop 'declaring' and stop asking me questions till you answer mine. Or, no, you won't do that, so I'll answer yours first. Where did I come from? Why from Aiken, by way of Charleston and Hardeeville. Did I come to visit the folks? Well, no, not exactly that. You see, I didn't set out to come here at all. I have spent part of the summer up at Aiken with these two school-mates of mine, and they were to spend the rest of it with me in Savannah. We were on our way down there when I got a despatch from father, saying that as yellow fever has broken out there I mustn't come home, but must come down here to Bluffton and stay with Uncle Edward till frost or school time. So we got off the train, hired a man with an ox-cart to bring our trunks down, and walked the eighteen miles. The man with the trunks will get here sometime, I suppose. There! I've made a long speech at you. Now, answer my questions, please. Where is Uncle Edward? and where is Aunt Helen? and why is the house shut up? and when will they be back again? and can't you give us something to eat, for we're nearly starved?"

Ned laughed as he delivered this volley of questions, but Maum Sally remained perfectly solemn, as she always did. When he finished, she said:

"Yaller fever! Bress my heart! It'll be heah nex' thing we knows. Walked all de way from Hardeeville! an' dis heah hot day too! e'en a'most starved! Well, I reckon ye is, an' I'll jes mosey roun' heah an' git you some supper."

It must be explained that Maum Sally, although she lived on the coast of South Carolina, and was called "Maum" instead of "Aunt," was born and "raised," as she would have said, in "Ole Firginny," and her dialect was therefore somewhat as represented here. The negroes of the coast speak a peculiar jargon, which would be wholly unintelligible to other than South Carolinian readers, even if I could render it faithfully by phonetic spelling.

As Maum Sally ceased speaking, she turned to go into her kitchen, which, as is usual in the South, was a detached building, standing some distance from the main house.

"But wait, Maum Sally," cried Ned, seizing her hand; "I'm not going to let you off that way. You haven't answered my questions yet."

"Now, look heah, young Ned," she said, with great solemnity, "does you s'pose Ole Sally was bawn and raised in Ole Firginny for nothin'? I aint forgot my manners nor hospitality, ef I is lived nigh onto twenty-five years in dis heah heathen coast country whah de niggas talks monkey language. I'se a gwine to git you'n your fr'en's – ef you'll interduce 'em – some supper, fust an' foremost. Den I'll answer all de questions you're a mind to ax, ef you don't git to conundrumin'."

Ned acknowledged Maum Sally's rebuke promptly.

"I did forget my manners," he said, "but you see I was badly flustered. This is my friend Jack Farnsworth, Maum Sally, and this," turning to the other boy, "is Charley Black. Boys, let me make you acquainted with Maum Sally, the best cook in South Carolina, or anywhere else, and the best Maum Sally in the world. She used to give me all sorts of good things to eat out here when I didn't get up to breakfast, and was expected to get on till dinner with a cold bite from the store-room. I'll bet she'll cook us a supper that will make your mouths water, and have it ready by the time we get the dust out of our eyes."

"Git de dus' out'n de all over you, more like. Heah's de key to de bath-house. You jes run down an' take a dip in de salt water, an' den git inter yer clo'es as fas' as you kin, an' when you's done dat, you'll fin' somethin' to eat awaitin' for you in de piazza. Git, now, quick. Ef I'se got to plan somethin' for supper, I'se got to hab my wits about me an' don' want no talkin' boys aroun'."

"It's of no use, boys," said Ned. "I know Maum Sally, and we're not going to get a word more out of her till supper is ready, so come on, let's have a plunge. It's all right, anyhow. My uncle and aunt have gone away for the day somewhere, I suppose, and will be back sometime to-night. If they don't come, I'll find a way to break into the house. It's my father's, you know, and one of my homes. In fact, I was born here. Uncle Edward lives here a good part of the time, because he likes it, and father lives in Savannah a good part of the year, because he doesn't like it here. Come, let's get a bath."

With that Ned conducted his guests to a pretty little bath-house which stood out over the water, and was approached by a green bridge. Bluffton abounds in these well-appointed, private bathing-houses, which, with their ornamental approaches, add not a little to the beauty of the singular town, which is scarcely a town at all in the ordinary sense of the word, as Ned explained to his companions while they were dressing after their bath.

"This coast country," he said, "is plagued with country fever."

"What's country fever?" asked Jack Farnsworth.

"It's a very severe and fatal form of bilious fever, which one night's exposure – or even a few hours' exposure after sunset – brings on."

"Then why did you bring us here?" asked Charley. "Are we to find ourselves down with country fever to-morrow morning?"

"No, not at all," replied Ned. "Country fever stays strictly at home. It never goes to town; it never visits high ground where there are pines, white sand, and no moss; and it never comes to Bluffton. That's why there is any Bluffton. All along the coast the planters have their winter residences on their plantations, but in the summer they go off to little summer villages in the pines to escape the fever. In the region just around us, it is so much easier and pleasanter to live here in Bluffton that they build permanent residences here and live here all the year around. There is no trade here, no shops – except a blacksmith shop out on the road – no stores, no any thing except private houses, and the private houses are all built pretty nearly alike. Each stands alone in a large plot of ground, which is filled with trees and shrubs just as all the streets are. Each house has a piazza running all the way around it, or pretty nearly that, and each has two or three joggling boards."

"What in the world is a joggling board?" asked Charley.

"I'll introduce you when we get back to the house," said Ned.

When the boys returned to the house, Ned's prediction was abundantly fulfilled. Maum Sally had spread a tempting, if somewhat incongruous supper in the piazza. There was a piece of cold ham, some fried fresh fish, a dish of shrimps stewed with tomatoes, a great platter of rice cooked in the South Carolinian way, and intended for use in lieu of bread, some boiled okra, roast sweet potatoes, and a pot of steaming coffee. It was a miscellaneous sort of meal, compounded of breakfast, dinner, and supper in about equal proportions, but it was such a meal as three healthy boys, who had walked eighteen miles and had then taken a sea bath, were not in the least disposed to quarrel with.

"Now, Maum Sally," said Ned, after he had complimented the supper and taken his seat at the table, "tell me where Uncle Edward and Aunt Helen are, and when they will get back?"

"Ain't ye got no manners at all, young Ned?" asked Sally, with an air of profound surprise; she always called the boy "Young Ned" when she wished to put him in awe of her; "ain't ye got no manners at all, or is you forgot 'em all sence I seed you last? Don' you know your frien's is a starvin'? and here you is a plaguin' me with questions insti'd o' helpin' on 'em. Mind yer manners, young gentleman, an' then I'll answer yer questions."

"All right, Maum Sally," said Ned; "Charley, let me give you some cold ham. Jack, help yourself to some fish. There are the shrimps, boys, between you. Maum Sally, pour out some coffee, please. Jack, you'll find the okra good; here, Charley, let me help you to rice."

Maum Sally, meanwhile, was pouring coffee and filling plates; when supper was well under way, she stood back a little way, placed her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo, and said with the utmost solemnity:

"Seems 's if somebody axed me somethin' or other 'bout de folks when I was too busy to ten' to 'em. Ef you'll ax me agin now, I'll be obleeged."

"Yes, upon reflection," said Ned, "I am inclined to think that I ventured to make some inquiry concerning my uncle and aunt. If I remember correctly, I asked where they are, and at what time they are likely to return."

"Whah is dey? Well, I don' rightly know, an' I can't say adzac'ly when dey'll be back agin. But I specs deys somewhah out on de sea, an' I s'pose dey'll be back about nex' November."

"What!" cried Ned, in surprise, suspending his attention to supper, and forgetting to maintain his pretence of dignified indifference. "What do you mean, Maum Sally?"

"Well, what I mean is dis heah. Yo' uncle an' aunt lef' here three days ago to go north. Dey said dey was a gwine to de centenimental expedition, an' to Newport an' somewhahs else – I reckon it was to some sort o' mountains – White Mountains, mebbe, an dey said dey'd be back agin in November, ef dey didn't make up dere minds to stay longer, or come back afore dat time. So now you knows as much about it as I does."

CHAPTER II

ON THE JOGGLING BOARDS

To say that Ned was surprised is to describe his feeling very mildly. Knowing his uncle's easy, indolent mode of life, his contentment with home, his lazy love of books and pipes and ease generally, Ned would as soon have expected to hear that the organ in the little church had gone off summering, as to learn that his uncle and aunt were travelling.

The other boys were in consternation.

"What on earth shall we do?" asked Jack Farnsworth.

"Better eat supper, fust an' fo'most," replied Maum Sally, whose theory of life consisted of a profound conviction that the important thing to be done was to eat an abundance of good food, well-cooked.

"That's so," said Ned. "We can't bring my uncle back by neglecting our supper, but we can let the coffee get cold, and that would be a pity. Let's eat now while the things are hot."

"Yes," replied Charley Black, "that's all right, but after that?"

"Why, after that we'll try the joggling boards."

"But, Ned," remonstrated Charley, "this won't do. Your uncle has gone away, and the house is shut up and so we can't stay here. Now, I move that you go back to Aiken with us."

"Not a bit of it," answered Ned. "I've visited at your house and at Jack's, and now you're my guests. Do you think I've 'forgot my manners,' as Maum Sally says?"

"But, Ned," said Jack, "you see the situation has changed since we started to go home with you. You can't go home, and now you can't stay here."

"Can't I though?" asked Ned; "and why not? I know a way into the house, and if you'll stay where you are for five minutes, I'll have the big doors unbarred and invite you in."

With that Ned stepped upon the piazza railing, caught a timber above, and easily swung himself up to the roof of the porch. Thence he made his way quickly to a round window in the garret – the house was only one story high, with a high garret story for the protection of the rooms from the heat of the sun. Pushing open this round window he sprang in, descended the stairs, and a moment later the boys heard him taking down the wooden bar which kept the great double doors fast. Then drawing the bolts at top and bottom, he swung the doors open without difficulty.

"Come in, boys," he cried. "I'll open the doors at the other side, and we'll have a breeze through the hall."

"But I say, old fellow," said Charley, "I don't like this. What will your uncle think of us for making free with his house in this way?"

"What, Uncle Edward? Why, he wouldn't ask how we got in if he were to get home now. He never troubles himself, and he's the best uncle in the world; so is Aunt Helen, or, I should say, she is the best aunt. And, besides, I tell you, this isn't Uncle Edward's house. It's my father's, and all the furniture is his too. Uncle Edward lives here just because he likes it here, and because father likes to have him here. But the house is ours, and sometimes we all come here without warning, and stay for months. It don't make any difference, except that more plates are put on the table. Every thing goes on just the same, and if Uncle Edward were to come in now he would hardly remember that we weren't here when he went away. So make yourselves easy. You're in my home just as much as if we were in Savannah, and there's nobody here to be bothered by our fun. We'll stay here and fish and row and bathe, and have a jolly time. The servants have all gone away, I suppose, except Maum Sally, but she'll take good care of us. You see, I'm her special pet. She has thought it her duty to coddle me and scold me and regulate me generally ever since I was born, and she likes nothing better. So come on out here and I'll introduce you unfortunate up-country boys to that greatest of human inventions, a joggling board. There are four or five of them on the front piazza."

This hospitable harangue satisfied the scruples of the boys, and the house was so pleasant, with its large, high rooms, wide hall, and broad piazzas – one of which looked out over the water, – the grounds were so tasteful, the trees so large and fine, and the whole aspect of Bluffton was so quiet and restful, that they were glad to settle themselves contentedly after their long tramp from the railroad at Hardeeville.

"The best way to get acquainted with a joggling board," said Ned, approaching a queer-looking structure on the piazza, "is to get on it. Try it and see, Charley. Don't be afraid. It won't turn over, and it can't break down. There," as Charley seated himself upon the board, "lie down now, and move almost any muscle you please the least bit in the world, and you'll understand what the thing is for."

"Oh! isn't it jolly!" exclaimed Charley, as the board began to sway gently under him and the breeze from the sea fanned him.

"It is all of that," replied Ned. "I'll get some pillows as soon as I get Jack to risk his precious neck on a board, and then we'll all be comfortable, like clams at high-tide. Jump up, Jack; it won't tip over. Now swing your legs up and lie down. There, how's that?"

Jack gave a sigh of satisfaction, while Ned ran into the house for sofa pillows. The three boys, tired as they were, soon ceased to talk, and fell asleep to the gentle swaying of the joggling boards.

CHAPTER III

AFLOAT

Once asleep on the cool, breeze-swept piazza, the three tired boys were not inclined to wake easily. The sun went down, but still they slept. Finally the teamster from Hardeeville arrived with the trunks on an ox-cart, and his loud cries to his oxen aroused Charley, who sprang up suddenly. Forgetting that his couch was a joggling board more than three feet high he undertook to step upon the floor as if he had been sleeping on an ordinary sofa. The result was that his feet, failing to reach the floor at the expected distance, were thrown backward under the board by the forward motion of the upper part of the body, and Master Charles Black, of Aiken, fell sprawling on the floor, waking both the other boys in alarm.

"What's up?" cried Ned.

"Nothing. I'm down," replied Charley. "I thought you said the thing wouldn't turn over."

"Well, it hasn't," said Ned. "Look and see. It's you that turned over. Are you hurt, old fellow?"

Charley was by this time on his feet again, and declared himself wholly free from hurt of any kind. The trunks were brought in, the driver turned over to Maum Sally's hospitality, and Ned declared it to be time for bed.

"Whew! how cold it is!" exclaimed Jack. "Do you have such changes of weather often, down here on the coast?"

"Only twice in twenty-four hours at this season," answered Ned, as they went into the house.

"Twice in twenty-four hours! What do you mean?"

"I mean once in twelve hours," answered Ned.

"How is that? I don't understand."

"Well, you see our late summer dews have begun to fall. If you were to go out now, you would find the water actually dripping from the trees. From this time on it will be chilly at night, almost cold, in fact, but hot as the tropic of Cancer in the daytime. So we have a sudden change of temperature twice a day – once from cold to hot, and once from hot to cold."

The boys were too sleepy to talk long, and the sun was shining in at the east windows when Maum Sally waked them the next morning for a breakfast as miscellaneous as the supper had been; sliced tomatoes and figs, still wet with the dew, being prominent features of the meal.

After breakfast Ned looked up a great variety of fishing tackle and got it in order.

"Where are your fish poles?" asked one of the boys.

"Fish poles! we don't use them in salt water. We fish with tight lines."

"What are they?"

"Why, long lines with a sinker at the end and no poles."

"Do you just hold the line in your hand?"

"Certainly. And another thing that we don't use is a float. We just fish right down in the deep water – or the shallow water rather, for the best fishing is on bars where the water isn't more than twenty feet deep; but deep or shallow, the fish are at the bottom, except skip-jacks; they swim on top, and sometimes we troll for them. They call them blue fish up North, I believe, but we call them skip-jacks or jack mackerel."

"What's that?" asked Jack, as Ned spread out a round net for inspection.

"A cast net."

"What's it for?"

"Shrimps."

"But I thought we were going fishing."

"So we are. But we must go shrimping first. We must have some bait."

"Oh, we are to use shrimps for bait, are we?"

"Very much so indeed," answered Ned. "They are capital bait – the best we have, unless we want to catch sheephead; then we use fiddlers."

"What are fiddlers?"

"Little black crabs that run about by millions over the sand. They have hard shells that whiting and croakers can't crack, while the sheephead, having good teeth, crush them easily. So when we want to catch sheephead, and don't want to be bothered with other fish, we bait with fiddlers."

"Then I understand that fish are so plentiful here and so easily caught that they bother you when you want to catch particular kinds?" said Jack, incredulously.

"If you mean that for a question," answered Ned, "I'll let you answer it for yourself after you've had a little experience."

"Well, if we don't get any shrimps," said Charley, "we'll fish for sheephead with musicians."

"Musicians? oh, you mean fiddlers," said Ned. "But we'll get shrimps enough."

"Do they bother you, too, with their abundance?" asked Jack, still inclined to joke his friend.

"Come on and see," said Ned, who had now prepared himself for wading.

Taking the cast net in his hand, and giving a pail to Jack, he led the way to the sea. Wading into the mouth of a little inlet he cast the net, which was simply a circular piece of netting, with a string of leaden balls around the edge. From this lead line cords extended on the under side of the net to and through a ring in the centre where they were fastened to a long cord which was held in Ned's hand. A peculiar motion in casting caused the net to spread itself out flat and to fall in that way on the water. The leaden balls caused it to sink at once to the bottom, the edges reaching bottom first, of course, and imprisoning whatever happened to be under the net in its passage. After a moment's pause, to give time for the lead line to sink completely, Ned jerked the cord and began to draw in. Of course this drew the lead line along the bottom to the centre ring, and made a complete pocket of the net, securely holding whatever was caught in it.

It came up after this first cast with about a hundred shrimps – of the large kind called prawn in the North – in it. The boys opened their eyes in surprise, and Ned cast again, bringing up this time about twice as many as before.

"They have hardly begun to come in yet," said Ned. "The tide is too young."

"Hardly begun to come in?" said Jack, "why, the water's alive with them. Let me throw the net."

"Certainly," said Ned, "if you know how."

"Know how? Why, there's no knack in that; anybody can do it."

With this confident boast Jack took the net and gave a violent cast. Neglecting to relax the rope at the right moment, however, the confident young gentleman made trouble for himself. The lead line swung around rapidly, the net wrapped itself around Jack, and the leaden balls struck him with sufficient violence to hurt. He lost his balance at the same instant, and, his legs being held close together by the wet net, he could not step out to recover himself. The result was that he fell sprawling into the water and was fished out in a very wet condition by his companions.

Jack was a boy capable of seeing the fun even in an accident of which he was the victim. He stood still while the net was unwound, and for a moment afterward. Then, seeing that the other boys were too considerate to laugh at him while in trouble, he quietly said:

"I told you I could do it."

"Well, you caught more in the net than I did," said Ned. "Now take hold again and I'll show you how to manage it. Your wet clothes won't hurt you. Sea-water doesn't give one cold."

A few lessons made Jack fairly expert in casting, but Charley had no mind to court mishaps, and would not try his skill. The pail was soon well filled with shrimps, and the boys returned to the boat house, where Jack changed his wet clothes for dry ones.

Then all haste was made to get the boat out, in order that they might fish while the tide was right. The boat was a large launch named Red Bird; a boat twenty-four feet long, very broad in the beam, and very stoutly built. It was provided with a mast and sail, but these were of no use now as there was no wind, and the bars on which Ned meant to fish were only a few hundred yards distant.

No sooner was the anchor cast than the lines were out, and the fish began accepting the polite invitation extended to them.

"What sort of fish are these, Ned?" asked Charley, as he took one from his hook.

"That," said Ned, looking round, "is a whiting – so called, I believe, because it is brown, and yellow, and occasionally pink and purple, with changeable silk stripes over it. That's the only reason I can think of for calling it a whiting. It is never white. It isn't properly a whiting for that matter. It isn't at all the same as the whiting of the North, at any rate."

"Why, they're changing color," exclaimed Jack.

"Look! they actually change color under your very eyes."

"Yes, it's a way whiting have," said Ned. "And some other fish do the same thing, I believe."

"Dolphins do," said Charley.

"Yes, but the whiting isn't even a second cousin to the dolphin. That's a croaker you've got, Jack; spot on his tail – splendid fish to eat – and he croaks. Listen!"

The fish did begin to utter a curious croaking sound, which surprised the boys. Other croakers were soon in the boat, and the company of them set up a croaking of which the inhabitants of a frog pond might not have been ashamed.

"They call croakers 'spot' in Virginia," said Ned, "because of the spot near the tail. Look at it. Isn't it pretty? and isn't the fish itself a beauty?"

"But the whiting is prettier," said Charley; "at least in colors. I say, Ned, do you know if whiting ever dine on kaleidoscopes?"

"Look out! hold that fellow away from you! hold the line at arm's length and don't let the brute strike you with his tail for your life!" exclaimed Ned, excitedly, as Charley drew a curious-looking creature up.

"What is the thing?" asked both the up-country boys in a breath.

"A stingaree," replied Ned, "and as ugly as a rattlesnake. See how viciously he strikes with his tail! Let him down slowly till his tail touches the bottom of the boat. There! Now wait till he stops striking for a moment and then clap your foot on his tail. Ah! now you've got him. Now cut the tail off close to the body and the fellow's harmless."

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The Wreck of the Red Bird: A Story of the Carolina Coast

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