said Joe, when they were out under the vines again and Mammy had recommenced her work, "what made you name Uncle Grief, Grief? That's a mighty funny name, ain't it, boys?"

"Well, chillun," said Mammy, plucking away at the chicken, "dat's so; it is a curus name like; me'n de ole man—he dead an' gone, chillun, long fo' you was born;—me'n de ole man 'sulted long time 'bout dat chile's name an' he war goin' on six months old fo' we name him at all."

"Well, how did you happen to call him Grief?" insisted Joe.

"Yes, honey, yes. 'Twar a long time ago, chile, when Mas' Will—dat's yer pa (she nodded towards Joe) war a little fellow, heap littler'n you, heap littler, an' Mas' Charley—dat's yer pappy (to the other two) war a baby. I war nussen him long o' Grief an' Grief warn't name yet. Miss May—dat's yer all's Gramma whar died las' year—she use to come out to de back steps an' watch dem two babies nussen', Grief an' Mas' Charley bof at de same time in my lap; an' Mas' Will an' Jerry—dat's my little boy what war jes' 'bout his age—a-playing in de back-yard, an' sometime she laugh an' cry all at de same time an' she say: 'We is all one fam'ly, Delphy!' she say. Law's, chillun, dem was times! You don't know nuthin' 'bout dem times. Disher house was full up all de time wid comp'ny; gran' comp'ny, what dress all de time in silk an' go walkin' 'bout under de trees an' ridin' 'bout over de prairie

in de day time; and mos' every night dey call my ole man in to play de fiddle an' den, laws, how dem young folks dance! An' ole Mas' an' ole Mis' an' all de young ladies an gentlemen use to come down to de cabins—dey was all burnt up, time o' de war—an' sakes, honey! de hosses an' de cayages an' de niggers an' disher big plantation, all shinin' wid corn an' cotton! Dem was times!" And Mammy's old eyes lighted up as she went back to her youth and the glory of her family, for she still speaks with pride of her "fam'ly."

"But Grief, Mammy?" said Jim.

"Yes, honey, yes. Yer pappy and Grief war babies, an' Grief warn't named, an' Mas' Will an' Jerry was little boys, littler'n you. 'N one day Miss May, she come to the back do' an' call me. I was sittin' in disher very place dat day, nussin dem two babies, an' my mammy (she de cook), gittin' dinner in de kitchen. 'Delphy,' Miss May say, 'Delphy, does you know whar Will an' Jerry is? Dey ain't been seen sence breakfast dis mornin'.

"YER PAPPY AN' GRIEF WAR BABIES, AN' GRIEF WARN'T NAMED."

"I felt curus-like dat minit, an' I jump up an' run all over de place lookin' for dem boys. 'Rectly all de house gals an' everybody—Mas' and Mis' an' everybody—commence to hunt for dem chillun. We look everywhere—in de hay-top, in de cotton

gin-house, out on de prairie—everywhere. Den I saw Miss May—dat's yer granma, turn white-like, an' she say, 'Oh Delphy, oh James'—dat's yer grandpa—'de ole well in de field! de ole well in de field!'

"Over in de bayou-field—it done full up now, ole Mas' had a well dug to water de hosses out in. It war kivered up wid some bodes.

"I don't 'zactly 'member 'bout goin' over to de field, but when I got dar wid dem two babies in my arms an' stood 'long side o' Miss May—"

Mammy Delphy spoke more and more slowly. She had stopped picking the chicken, and great tears were rolling down her cheeks. The boys stood stricken and silent.

—"Stood 'long side o' Miss May, fus thing I hear war Jerry sayin' weak-like an' way down in de well: 'Don't you cry, Mas' Will! Hol' on to my neck, Mas' Will! Hol' tight, Mas' Will! I kin hol' you up. Don't you be feerd Mas' Will, I kin hol' you up! Don't you be feerd Mas' Will; I kin hol' you up!'

"Ole Mas' lean over de well an' look in. Mas' Will he warn't as high as Jerry, an' Jerry he war standin in de water up to his neck an'

hol'in' Mas' Will up out'n de water. An' dem chillun had been in dat well all day, honey, 'all day, an' my Jerry holdin Mas' Will out'n de water; an' dat water col' as ice! Den ole Mas' let down de rope dey fotch an' tole Mas' Will to ketch hol'. An Mas' Will—dat yer pappy, honey—he say, weak-like, 'Take Jerry too, pappy, take Jerry too!'

"'We'll get Jerry next time,' says ole Mas'. An' Jerry help Mas' Will fix de rope roun' him an' dey pull him up out'n de water. He done fainted when dey got him out, an' he tuk de fever, an' dat chile war sick mos' six months, an' all de time he had de fever, he say: 'Take Jerry too, pappy, take Jerry too!' And when he come to hisself, he say right off:

"'Where's Jerry? I want Jerry.'"

Mammy Delphy stopped.

"And where was Jerry, mammy?" cried the boys, breathless.

"'Where war Jerry?' Ole Mas' let down de rope an' say right loud: 'Ketch holt, Jerry my boy!' But Jerry couldn't ketch holt, chillen. Jerry war dead."

"Oh mammy!"

"Yes, chillun, yes. Dey rub him an' rub him, an' do everything to fotch him to life. But, my Jerry war dead. An' when me'n de ole man come home from de funeral—dey buried him in de white folks' buryin'-groun,' long side o' Miss May's little gal what died—an' put a tombstone at de head—when we

come home from de funeral dat night, de ole man look at de baby on my lap an' he say, 'Delphy, honey,' he say, 'I think disher baby mout be name Grief.' An' we name him Grief."

Mammy Delphy wiped her eyes and resumed her work. Then, looking up to the blue sky which shone between the vines, she began singing again:

And the boys, subdued and silent, and for a moment forgetful of horned-frogs and crawfish, went away softly, as if leaving a grave.

SAMMY SEALSKIN'S ENEMY.

"Where going, Sammy Sealskin?".

"Down to my kayah, Tommy Fishscales."

"Is there any fish to-day?"

"A few, they say, but there is lots of seals—plenty of 'em on the rocks in the bay."

"All right; bring home something to your friend, Tommy."

Sammy pushed off his kayah from shore. It was a funny sort of boat, according to our notions. It was only nine inches deep, and about a foot and a half wide in the middle, tapering to a point at either end and curving upward. It was about sixteen feet long. Its frame was of very light wood, and this was covered with tanned seal-skin. Sammy's mother was

a Greenlander, and she could sew on seal-skin very handily, using sinews for thread; and she had covered her little boy's boat with seal-skin, leaving a hole in the centre just large enough to receive Sammy.

When he had dropped into his place, he then laced the lower border of his jacket to the rim of the hole, and there he was all snug—not a drop of water could get in. Grasping his single oar, about six feet long, with a paddle at either end, and flourishing it in the water right and left, away swept the young fisherman.

"I should think his craft would be top-heavy, and over he would go," says some reader.

One naturally would think his craft would be top-heavy and over he would go, as the kayah has no keel and carries no ballast, and if we should try a kayah, it would certainly be on land. But those Greenlanders learn to handle themselves so