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By Joel Chandler Harris.

    NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS. Myths and Legends of the Old
    Plantation. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.

    MINGO, and other Sketches in Black and White. 16mo, $1.25;
    paper, 50 cents.

    BALAAM AND HIS MASTER, and other Sketches and Stories. 16mo,
    $1.25.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK.




                          BALAAM AND HIS MASTER
                         _AND OTHER SKETCHES AND
                                STORIES_

                                   BY
                          JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

        AUTHOR OF “UNCLE REMUS, HIS SONGS AND HIS SAYINGS,” “FREE
                  JOE,” “DADDY JAKE, THE RUNAWAY,” ETC.

                             [Illustration]

                           BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                      HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
                     The Riverside Press, Cambridge
                                  1891

                            Copyright, 1891,
                        BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

                         _All rights reserved._

            _The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
            Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.




CONTENTS.


                               PAGE

    BALAAM AND HIS MASTER         7

    A CONSCRIPT’S CHRISTMAS      45

    ANANIAS                     112

    WHERE’S DUNCAN?             149

    MOM BI                      170

    THE OLD BASCOM PLACE        192




BALAAM AND HIS MASTER.


What fantastic tricks are played by fate or circumstance! Here is a
horrible war that shall redeem a nation, that shall restore civilization,
that shall establish Christianity. Here is a university of slavery that
shall lead the savage to citizenship. Here is a conflagration that
shall rebuild a city. Here is the stroke of a pen that shall change the
destinies of many peoples. Here is the bundle of fagots that shall light
the fires of liberty. As in great things, so in small. Tragedy drags
comedy across the stage, and hard upon the heels of the hero tread the
heavy villain and the painted clown.

What a preface to write before the name of Billville!

Years ago, when one of the ex-Virginian pioneers who had settled in
Wilkes County, in the State of Georgia, concluded to try his fortune
farther west, he found himself, after a tedious journey of a dozen days,
in the midst of a little settlement in middle Georgia. His wagons
and his <DW64>s were at once surrounded by a crowd of curious but
good-humored men and a swarm of tow-headed children.

“What is your name?” he asked one of the group.

“Bill Jones.”

“And yours?” turning to another.

“Bill Satterlee.”

The group was not a large one, but in addition to Jones and Satterlee,
as the newcomer was informed, Bill Ware, Bill Cosby, Bill Pinkerton,
Bill Pearson, Bill Johnson, Bill Thurman, Bill Jessup, and Bill Prior
were there present, and ready to answer to their names. In short, fate
or circumstance had played one of its fantastic pranks in this isolated
community, and every male member of the settlement, with the exception of
Laban Davis, who was small and puny-looking, bore the name of Bill.

“Well,” said the pioneer, who was not without humor, “I’ll pitch my tent
in Billville. My name is Bill Cozart.”

This is how Billville got its name—a name that has clung to it through
thick and thin. A justifiable but futile attempt was made during the
war to change the name of the town to Panola, but it is still called
Billville, much to the disappointment of those citizens who have drawn
both pride and prosperity in the lottery of life.

It was a fortunate day for Billville when Mr. William Cozart, almost by
accident, planted his family tree in the soil of the settlement. He was a
man of affairs, and at once became the leading citizen of the place. His
energy and public spirit, which had room for development here, appeared
to be contagious. He bought hundreds of acres of land, in the old
Virginia fashion, and made for himself a home as comfortable as it was
costly. His busy and unselfish life was an example for his neighbors to
follow, and when he died the memory of it was a precious heritage to his
children.

Meanwhile Billville, stirred into action by his influence, grew into a
thrifty village, and then into a flourishing town; but through all the
changes the Cozarts remained the leading family, socially, politically,
and financially. But one day in the thirties Berrien Cozart was born, and
the wind that blew aside the rich lace of his cradle must have been an
ill one, for the child grew up to be a thorn in the side of those who
loved him best. His one redeeming quality was his extraordinary beauty.
This has, no doubt, been exaggerated; but there are still living in
Billville many men and women who knew him, and they will tell you to-day
that Berrien Cozart was the handsomest man they have ever seen—and some
of them have visited every court in Europe. So far as they are concerned,
the old saying, “Handsome is that handsome does,” has lost its force.
They will tell you that Berrien Cozart was the handsomest man in the
world and—probably the worst.

He was willful and wrongheaded from the first. He never, even as a child,
acknowledged any authority but his own sweet will. He could simulate
obedience whenever it suited his purpose, but only one person in the
world had any real influence over him—a <DW64> named Balaam. The day
Berrien Cozart was born, his proud and happy father called to a likely
<DW64> lad who was playing about in the yard—the day was Sunday—and said:—

“How old are you?”

“I dunno ’zackly, marster, but ole Aunt Emmeline she know.”

