飘

d　never　seen　in　them　before。
　“Yas’m；　dat　hawse　daid；　lyin’　dar　whar　Ah　tie　him　wid　his　nose　in　de　water　bucket　he　tuhned　over。　No’m；　de　cow　ain’　daid。　Din’　you　know？　She　done　have　a　calf　las’　night　Dat　why　she　beller　so。”
　“A　fine　midwife　your　Prissy　will　make；”　Scarlett　remarked　caustically。　“She　said　she　was　bellowing　because　she　needed　milking。”
　“Well’m；　Prissy　ain’　fixin’　ter　be　no　cow　midwife；　Miss　Scarlett；”　Pork　said　tactfully。　“An’　ain’　no　use　quarrelin’　wid　blessin’s；　‘cause　dat　calf　gwine　ter　mean　a　full　cow　an’　plen’y　buttermilk　fer　de　young　Misses；　lak　dat　Yankee　doctah　say　dey’　need。”
　“All　right；　go　on。　Any　stock　left？”
　“No’m。　Nuthin’　‘cept　one　ole　sow　an’　her　litter。　Ah　driv　dem　inter　de　swamp　de　day　de　Yankees　come；　but　de　Lawd　knows　how　we　gwine　git　dem。　She　mean；　dat　sow。”
　“Well　get　them　all　right。　You　and　Prissy　can　start　right　now　hunting　for　her。”
　Pork　was　amazed　and　indignant。
　“Miss　Scarlett；　dat　a　fe’el　han’s　bizness。　Ah’s　allus　been　a　house　nigger。”
　A　small　fiend　with　a　pair　of　hot　tweezers　plucked　behind　Scarlett’s　eyeballs。
　“You　two　will　catch　the　sow—or　get　out　of　here；　like　the　field　hands　did。”
　Tears　trembled　in　Pork’s　hurt　eyes。　Oh；　if　only　Miss　Ellen　was　here！　She　understood　such　niceties　and　realized　the　wide　gap　between　the　duties　of　a　field　hand　and　those　of　a　house　nigger。
　“Git　out；　Miss　Scarlett？　Whar’d　Ah　git　out　to；　Miss　Scarlett？”
　“I　don’t　know　and　I　don’t　care。　But　anyone　at　Tara　who　won’t　work　can　go　hunt　up　the　Yankees。　You　can　tell　the　others　that　too。”
　“Yas’m。”
　“Now；　what　about　the　corn　and　the　cotton；　Pork？”
　“De　cawn？　Lawd；　Miss　Scarlett；　dey　pasture　dey　hawses　in　de　cawn　an’　cah’ied　off　whut　de　hawses　din’　eat　or　spile。　An’　dey　driv　dey　cannons　an’　waggins　‘cross　de　cotton　till　it　plum　ruint；　‘cept　a　few　acres　over　on　de　creek　bottom　dat　dey　din’　notice。　But　dat　cotton　ain’　wuth　foolin’　wid；　‘cause　ain’　but　‘bout　three　bales　over　dar。”
　Three　bales。　Scarlett　thought　of　the　scores　of　bales　Tara　usually　yielded　and　her　head　hurt　worse。　Three　bales。　That　was　little　more　than　the　shiftless　Slatterys　raised。　To　make　matters　worse；　there　was　the　question　of　taxes。　The　Confederate　government　took　cotton　for　taxes　in　lieu　of　money；　but　three　bales　wouldn’t　even　cover　the　taxes。　Little　did　it　matter　though；　to　her　or　the　Confederacy；　now　that　all　the　field　hands　had　run　away　and　there　was　no　one　to　pick　the　cotton。
　“Well；　I　won’t　think　of　that　either；”　she　told　herself。　“Taxes　aren’t　a　woman’s　job　anyway。　Pa　ought　to　look　after　such　things；　but　Pa—　I　won’t　think　of　Pa　now。　The　Confederacy　can　whistle　for　its　taxes。　What　we　need　now　is　something　to　eat。”
　“Pork；　have　any　of　you　been　to　Twelve　Oaks　or　the　Macintosh　place　to　see　if　there’s；　anything　left　in　the　gardens　there？”
　“No；　Ma’m！　Us　ain’　lef’　Tara。　De　Yankees　mout　git　us。”
　“I’ll　send　Dilcey　over　to　Macintosh。　Perhaps　she’ll　find　something　there。　And　I’ll　go　to　Twelve　Oaks。”
　“Who　wid；　chile？”
　“By　myself。　Mammy　must　stay　with　the　girls　and　Mr。　Gerald　can’t—”
　Pork　set　up　an　outcry　which　she　found　infuriating。　There　might　be　Yankees　or　mean　niggers　at　Twelve　Oaks。　She　mustn’t　go　alone。”
　“That　will　be　enough；　Pork。　Tell　Dilcey　to　start　immediately。　And　you　and　Prissy　go　bring　in　the　sow　and　her　litter；”　she　said　briefly；　turning　on　her　heel。
　Mammy’s　old　sunbonnet；　faded　but　clean；　hung　on　its　peg　on　the　back　porch　and　Scarlett　put　it　on　her　head；　remembering；　as　from　another　world；　the　bonnet　with　the　curling　green　plume　which　Rhett　had　brought　her　from　Paris。　She　picked　up　a　large　split…oak　basket　and　started　down　the　back　stairs；　each　step　jouncing　her　head　until　her　spine　seemed　to　be　trying　to　crash　through　the　top　of　her　skull。
　The　road　down　to　the　river　lay　red　and　scorching　between　the　ruined　cotton　fields。　There　were　no　trees　to　cast　a　shade　and　the　sun　beat　down　through　Mammy’s　sunbonnet　as　if　it　were　made　of　tarlatan　instead　of　heavy　quilted　calico；　while　the　dust　floating　upward　sifted　into　her　nose　and　throat　until　she　felt　the　membranes　would　crack　dryly　if　she　spoke。　Deep　ruts　and　furrows　were　cut　into　the　road　where　horses　had　dragged　heavy　guns　along　it　and　the　red　gullies　on　either　side　were　deeply　gashed　by　the　wheels。　The　cotton　was　mangled　and　trampled　where　cavalry　and　infantry；　forced　off　the　narrow　road　by　the　artillery；　had　marched　through　the　green　bushes；　grinding　them　into　the　earth。　Here　and　mere　in　the　road　and　fields　lay　buckles　and　bits　of　harness　leather；　canteens　flattened　by　hooves　and　caisson　wheels；　buttons；　blue　caps；　worn　socks；　bits　of　bloody　rags；　all　the　litter　left　by　the　marching　army。
　She　passed　the　clump　of　cedars　and　the　low　brick　wall　which　marked　the　family　burying　ground；　trying　not　to　think　of　the　new　grave　lying　by　the　three　short　mounds　of　her　little　brothers。　Oh；　Ellen—　She　trudged　on　down　the　dusty　hill；　passing　the　heap　of　ashes　and　the　stumpy　chimney　where　the　Slattery　house　had　stood；　and　she　wished　savagely　that　the　whole　tribe　of　them　had　been　part　of　the　ashes。　If　it　hadn’t　been　for　the　Slatterys—if　it　hadn’t　been　for　that　nasty　Emmie　who’d　had　a　bastard　brat　by　their　overseer—Ellen　wouldn’t　have　died。
　She　moaned　as　a　sharp　pebble　cut　into　her　blistered　foot。　What　was　she　doing　here？　Why　was　Scarlett　O’Hara；　the　belle　of　the　County；　the　sheltered　pride　of　Tara；　tramping　down　this　rough　road　almost　barefoot？　Her　little　feet　were　made　to　dance；　not　to　limp；　her　tiny　slippers　to　peep　daringly　from　under　bright　silks；　not　to　collect　sharp　pebbles　and　dust。　She　was　born　to　be　pampered　and　waited　upon；　and　here　she　was；　sick　and　ragged；　driven　by　hunger　to　hunt　for　food　in　the　gardens　of　her　neighbors。
　At　the　bottom　of　the　long　hill　was　the　river　and　how　cool　and　still　were　the　tangled　trees　overhanging　the　water！　She　sank　down　on　the　low　bank；　and　stripping　off　the　remnants　of　her　slippers　and　stockings；　dabbled　her　burning　feet　in　the　cool　water。　It　would　be　so　good　to　sit　here　all　day；　away　from　the　helpless　eyes　of　Tara；　here　where　only　the　rustle　of　leaves　and　the　gurgle　of　slow　water　broke　the　stillness。　But　reluctantly　she　replaced　her　shoes　and　stockings　and　trudged　down　the　bank；　spongy　with　moss；　under　the　shady　trees。　The　Yankees　had　burned　the　bridge　but　she　knew　of　a　footlog　bridge　across　a　narrow　point　of　the　stream　a　hundred　yards　below。　She　crossed　it　cautiously　and　trudged　uphill　the　hot　half…mile　to　Twelve　Oaks。
　There　towered　the　twelve　oaks；　as　they　had　stood　since　Indian　days；　but　with　their　leaves　brown　from　fire　and　the　branches　burned　and　scorched。　Within　their　circle　lay　the　ruins　of　John　Wilkes’　house；　the　charred　remains　of　that　once　stately　home　which　had　crowned　the　hill　in　white…columned　dignity。　The　deep　pit　which　had　been　the　cellar；　the　blackened　field…stone　foundations　and　two　mighty　chimneys　marked　the　site。　One　long　column；　half…burned；　had　fallen　across　the　lawn；　crushing　the　cape　jessamine　bushes。
　Scarlett　sat　down　on　the　column；　too　sick　at　the　sight　to　go　on。　This　desolation　went　to　her　heart　as　nothing　she　had　ever　experienced。　Here　was　the　Wilkes　pride　in　the　dust　at　her　feet。　Here　was　the　end　of　the　kindly；　courteous　house　which　had　always　welcomed　her；　the　house　where　in　futile　dreams　she　had　aspired　to　be　mistress。　Here　she　had　danced　and　dined　and　flirted　and　here　she　had　watched　with　a　jealous；　hurting　heart　how　Melanie　smiled　up　at　Ashley。　Here；　too；　in　the　cool　shadows　of　the　trees；　Charles　Hamilton　had　rapturously　pressed　her　hand　when　she　said　she　would　marry　him。
　“Oh；　Ashley；”　she　thought；　“I　hope　you　are　dead！　I　could　never　bear　for　you　to　see　this。”
　Ashley　had　married　his　bride　here　but　his　son　and　his　son’s　son　would　never　bring　brides　to　this　house。　There　would　be　no　more　matings　and　births　beneath　this　roof　which　she　had　so　loved　and　longed　to　rule。　The　house　was　dead　and　to　Scarlett；　it　was　as　if　all　the　Wilkeses；　too；　were　dead　in　its　ashes。
　“I　won’t　think　of　it　now。　I　can’t　stand　it　now。　I’ll　think　of　it　later；”　she　said　aloud；　turning　her　eyes　away。
　Seeking　the　garden；　she　limped　around　the　‘ruins；　by　the　trampled　rose　beds　the　Wilkes　girls　had　tended　so　zealously；　across　the　back　yard　and　through　the　ashes　to　the　smokehouse；　barns　and　chicken　houses。　The　split…rail　fence　around　the　kitchen　garden　had　been　demolished　and　the　once　orderly　rows　of　green　plants　had　suffered　the　same　treatment　as　those　at　Tara。　The　soft　earth　was　scarred　with　hoof　prints　and　heavy　wheels　and　the　vegetables　were　mashed　into　the　soil。　There　was　nothing　for　her　here。
　She　walked　back　across　the　yard　and　took　the　path　down　toward　the　silent　row　of　whitewashed　cabins　in　the　quarters；　calling　“Hello！”　as　she　went。　But　no　voice　answered　her。　Not　even　a　dog　barked。　Evidently　the　Wilkes　negroes　had　taken　flight　or　followed　the　Yankees。　She　knew　every　slave　had　his　own　garden　patch　and　as　she　reached　the　quarters；　she　hoped　these　little　patches　had　been　spared。
　Her　search　was　rewarded　but　she　was　too　tired　even　to　feel　pleasure　at　the　sight　of　turnips　and　cabbages；　wilted　for　want　of　water　but　still　standing；　and　straggling　butter　bea