



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books









ON THE PLANTATION

A Story Of A Georgia Boy's Adventures During The War

By Joel Chandler Harris

Author Of Uncle Remus

With Twenty-Three Illustrations By E. W. Kemble

New York

D. Appleton And Company

1892


JOSEPH ADDISON TURNER

LAWYER, EDITOR, SCHOLAR, PLANTER,

AND PHILANTHROPIST THIS MIXTURE

OF FACT AND FICTION IS INSCRIBED




INTRODUCTORY NOTE.


Some of my friends who have read in serial form the chronicles that
follow profess to find in them something more than an autobiographical
touch. Be it so. It would indeed be difficult to invest the commonplace
character and adventures of Joe Maxwell with the vitality that belongs
to fiction. Nevertheless, the lad himself, and the events which are
herein described, seem to have been born of a dream. That which is
fiction pure and simple in these pages bears to me the stamp of truth,
and that which is true reads like a clumsy invention. In this matter
it is not for me to prompt the reader. He must sift the fact from the
fiction and label it to suit himself.

J. C. H.




ON THE PLANTATION.




CHAPTER I--JOE MAXWELL MAKES A START


The post-office in the middle Georgia village of Hillsborough used
to be a queer little place, whatever it is now. It was fitted up in
a cellar; and the postmaster, who was an enterprising gentleman from
Connecticut, had arranged matters so that those who went after their
letters and papers could at the same time get their grocery supplies.

Over against the wall on one side was a faded green sofa. It was not an
inviting seat, for in some places the springs peeped through, and one of
its legs was broken, giving it a suspicious tilt against the wall. But
a certain little boy found one corner of the rickety old sofa a very
comfortable place, and he used to curl up there nearly every day,
reading such stray newspapers as he could lay hands on, and watching the
people come and go.

To the little boy the stock of goods displayed for sale was as curious
in its variety as the people who called day after day for the letters
that came or that failed to come. To some dainty persons the mingled
odor of cheese, cam-phene, and mackerel would have been disagreeable;
but Joe Maxwell--that was the name of the little boy--had a healthy
disposition and a strong stomach, and he thought the queer little
post-office was one of the pleasantest places in the world.

A partition of woodwork and wire netting cut off the post-office and the
little stock of groceries from the public at large, but outside of that
was an area where a good many people could stand and wait for their
letters. In one corner of this area was the rickety green sofa, and
round about were chairs and boxes and barrels on which tired people
could rest themselves.

The Milledgeville papers had a large circulation in the county. They
were printed at the capital of the State, and were thought to be very
important on that account. They had so many readers in the neighborhood
that the postmaster, in order to save time and trouble, used to pile
them up on a long shelf outside the wooden partition, where each
subscriber could help himself. Joe Maxwell took advantage of this
method, and on Tuesdays, when the Milledgeville papers arrived, he could
always be found curled up in the corner of the old green sofa reading
the _Recorder_ and the _Federal Union_. What he found in those papers to
interest him it would be hard to say. They were full of political essays
that were popular in those days, and they had long reports of political
conventions and meetings from all parts of the State. They were papers
for grown people, and Joe Maxwell was only twelve years old, and