and wanted to get entirely shut of them. CHAPTER ****XII. WHEN I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think they're talking about _you_.  As a general thing it makes a body wish _he_ was dead, too, and done with it all. Phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike.  A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump on to a horse; some sickly gr****-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare