Cotton’s in the fields all along here and down through the bayou Natchez country.”
“Oh! it isn’t earthly – it’s Fairyland!”
“Don’t know what the planters are going to do, unless they turn half the land into pasture and start raising cattle. What you going to do with that Cane river plantation of yours?”
“God knows. I wonder if it looks like this. Do you think they’ve picked the cotton – Do you think one could ever forget-“
Well some kind soul should have warned us not to go into Natchitoches town. The people were all stark mad. The snow had gone to their heads.
“Keep them curtains shut tight,” said the driver of the rumbling old hack. “They don’t know what they about; they jus’ as lief pelt you to death as not.”
The horses plunged in their break neck speed; the driver swore deep under his breath; pim! pam! the missles rained against the protecting curtains; the shrieks and yells outside were demoniac, blood curdling. – There was no court that day – the judges and lawyers were rolling in the snow with the boys and girls. There was no school that day; the professors at the Normal – those from the North-states, were showing off and getting the worst of it. The nuns up on the hill and their little charges were like march hares. Barred doors were no protection if an unguarded window had been forgotten. The sanctity of home and person was a myth to be demolished with pelting, melting, showering, suffocating snow.
