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An' fur ebry lick you giv' us, we gwi' giv' you er dozen on your naked back, an' es fur dis ole witch," said the brute, pointing to old Aunt Charity, "we got de plain docyments on her fur witchin' Br'er Moses' little gal de same dat she mek hab fits, an' we gwi' hang her to a lim'." The old man drew himself up.
My ole Mas'r Lowndes keep all de ages in a big book, and when we come to age ob sense we mark em down ebry year, so I know. Too ole for come? Mas'r joking. Neber too ole for leave de land o' bondage. I old, but great good for chil'en, gib tousand tank ebry day.
He los' his pa an his prop'ty too, but he know betteh dan to go on hatin' fereber. Dey can't spec' me to uphole dem in dis fer it agin de Scripter an' my feelin's. Ole Missus bery 'ligious. She dun fergit wat de words mean she say ebry Sunday, But den, wot de use ob callin' ole Missus to 'count. She neber could see ony her side ob de question.
If you stays on land, dey'll git you, shure, an' I knows ebry foot ob de harbor as well as I do de city. Ain't Peter Martinet been here eber since the Revolution War? No man here knows de harbor better dan me, tripedoes or no tripedoes. Dey can't blow me up, dat's shure. Come, let's go, be quick, and be sly too." Emile followed as one in a dream.
"She persume to come here and order you dis way an' I dat way, an' all us all 'round ebry which way oo but I gived her a piece o' my mind," spake Margery, the weaver, very irate. "Umph! I never seed ye speak to her," said Amy, doubtingly. "Not wid my tongue, mind ye. I knows better den dat. But I jes spit fire at her out of my eyes." "Fire neber burn Miss Rusha; she too ugly for dat.
When I'se littl' I sleeped in a trun'l bed. My mammy wuz mighty 'ticlar an' clean, why she made us chilluns wash ouah feets ebry night fo' we git into de bed." "When Marse Hunt muved up to Charl'stun, my mammy and pappy liv' in log cabin." "My gran' mammy, duz I 'member hur? Honey chile, I shure duz. She wuz my pappy's mammy. She wuz one hun'erd and fo' yeahs ol' when she die rite in hur cheer.
I wrote it down in tent, long after, while the old man recited the tale, with much gesticulation, at the door; and it is by far the best glimpse I have ever had, through a negro's eyes, at these wonderful birthdays of freedom. "De people was all a hoein', mas'r," said the old man. "Dey was a hoein' in the rice-field, when de gunboats come. Den ebry man drap dem hoe, and leff de rice.
'She got 'em all laid out side by side in de buryin' groun' wid er little imige on ebry grabe; an', 'Sis Mary Ellen, seein' as she can't read de writin' on de tombstones, she got a diff'unt little animal asettin' on eb'ry head res' so's she kin tell which husban' am which.
"Yuna mouts g'wine ter git yuna inter trouble; hear me? Did yuna see Jedge Morse when he go by? Did yuna see 'im stop ter listen at you? Le' me tell yuna sumthin' right good." The old man shook his finger several seconds before proceeding. "Dese white fo'kes is onter you, dey got de road all map out. Dey no ebry move yuna Nigger makin'. How dey no it? How dey no it, I say?"
"Do you think I do not love you, Vingo, because you are black? You are always good to me, and what would I do without you to take me to the shore, whenever I like to go?" "O, little missy, I tink you can sympetize wid old black Bingo; but den, ebry body not like you; you's one ob de Lord's chilen hesef." "We are all the Lord's children, Vingo," said Mrs.
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