“Carolina Martin, you get up this instant. Do you hear me? I’ve called you sixteen times already, if ’tisn’t twenty, and _this_ the morning the new teacher starts at the old log schoolhouse over at Woodford’s. You don’t want us all to be late, do you, and have her think we’re shiftless, like the poor white folks our mother used to tell about, in the mountains down in Tennessee. We, with the bluest blood in our veins that flows in the whole South! Carolina, _are you up_?” This conversation was carried on in a high-pitched voice by a thin, homely, freckled-faced little girl whose straight brick-red hair had not a wave in it, and whose long, skinny legs, showing beneath the gingham dress two y…
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