It. He must get over it. What will I do if he doesn't?--I won't

think about it now. I won't think of him or Mother or any of these

awful things now. No, not till I can stand it. There are too many

other things to think about--things that can be helped without my

thinking of those I can't help."

She left the dining room without eating, and went out onto the back

porch where she found Pork, barefooted and in the ragged remains of

his best livery, sitting on the steps cracking peanuts. Her head

was hammering and throbbing and the bright, sunlight stabbed into

her eyes. Merely holding herself erect required an effort of will

power and she talked as briefly as possible, dispensing with the

usual forms of courtesy her mother had always taught her to use

with negroes.

She began asking questions so brusquely and giving orders so

decisively Pork's eyebrows went up in mystification. Miss Ellen

didn't never talk so short to nobody, not even when she caught them

stealing pullets and watermelons. She asked again about the

fields, the gardens, the stock, and her green eyes had a hard

bright glaze which Pork had 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."

"We'll 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."

"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