How like a woman born to fill a loftier sphere than that to
which a cruel law subjects her, she seems!
Neither a field nor a house servant, the uninitiated may be at a
loss to know what sphere on the plantation is her's? She is the
mother of Annette, a little girl of remarkable beauty, sitting at
her side, playing with her left hand. Annette is fair, has light
auburn hair-not the first tinge of her mother's olive invades her
features. Her little cheerful face is lit up with a smile, and while
toying with the rings on her mother's fingers, asks questions that
person does not seem inclined to answer. Vivacious and sprightly,
she chatters and lisps until we become eager for her history. "It's
only a child's history," some would say. But the mother displays so
much fondness for it; and yet we become more and more excited by the
strange manner in which she tries to suppress an outward display of
her feelings. At times she pats it gently on the head, runs her
hands through its hair, and twists the ends into tiny ringlets.
In the next cabin we meet the shortish figure of a tawny female,
whose Indian features stand boldly out. Her high cheek bones, long
glossy black hair, and flashing eyes, are the indexes of her
pedigree. "My master says I am a slave:" in broken accents she
answers our question. As she sits in her chair near the fire-place
of bricks, a male issue of the mixed blood toddles round and round
her, tossing her long coarse hair every time he makes a circut.
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