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I didn't ebber 'spect nuffin' but jest a tollable libbin', only a bit ob larnin, fer my chillen. I tried mighty hard, an' dis is jes what's come on't. I don't pertend ter say what's de matter, but sunthin' is wrong, or else sunthin' hez been wrong, an' dis that we hez now is jest de fruits on't I dunno which. I can't understand it, nohow.
So we jes take de lightest on 'em an' de chillen an' corned on ter take up quarters wid you cordin' ter de 'rangement we made yesterday." "Dat's all right; jes right," said Nimbus; "but I don't understand it quite. Do yer mean ter say dat Marse Sykes turn you uns offen his plantation while you'se all away, jes kase yer come ter de meetin' yesterday?" "Nuffin' else in de libbin yairth.
"Solomon," said the Colonel severely, "what are you trying to say? Talk sense." "Sho's yuh bohn, Marse Cunnel; it's de libbin' truf I's tellin' yuh. Dat ha'nt has fotched dat chicken right outen de oven, an' it's vanished in de air." "You go out and bring that chicken in and don't let me hear another word." "I cayn't, Marse Cunnel, 'deed I cayn't. Dere ain't no chicken dere." "Very well, then!
Mars Jeems wuz a ha'd man, en monst'us stric' wid his han's. Eber sence he growed up he nebber 'peared ter hab no feelin' fer nobody. W'en his daddy, ole Mars John McLean, died, de plantation en all de niggers fell ter young Mars Jeems. He had be'n bad 'nuff befo', but it wa'n't long atterwa'ds 'tel he got so dey wuz no use in libbin' at all ef you ha' ter lib roun' Mars Jeems.
"Wish I may die, sah, ef it ain't de honest truf; an' de fus' time dat ebber I set eyes on Vina war in a slabe-pen in New Orleans eight years ago, when we war sold to de same marster. Ef Massa John Brown war libbin' he could prove it to yer; but dar ain't no udder libbin' human 'cept de slabe-driber and he war blowed up on his nex' trip up de ribber dat knows anyting about it."
"Massa, dis hoss will be no manner of remaginable use under de blessed light ob de sun." "Why, Sorrow?" "Cause, Massa, he don't understand one word of English, and de French he knows no libbin' soul can understand but a Cheesencooker, yah, yah, yah! Dey called him a 'shovel, and his tail a 'queue. " "What a goose you are, Sorrow," sais I.
I tol' dat young nigger ef he didn' take hisse'f 'way wid dem lies, I 'd take a buggy-trace ter 'im; fer I sees de yeath stan'in' still all de time, en I sees de sun gwine roun' it, en ef a man can't b'lieve w'at 'e sees, I can't see no use in libbin' mought's well die en be whar we can't see nuffin.
"Jes see de 'fec's ob high libbin' on a nigger. Dar's muscle fer ye. All you needs, Bre'er Nimbus, is jest a few weeks ob good feed! Come up dar now an' wuk a farm on sheers, an' let Marse Sykes 'llowance ye, an' yer'll come out like me an' git some good clothes, too! Greatest place ter start up a run-down nigger yer ever seed. Jes' look at me, now.
The attention of Nimbus was first directed to it by a neighbor-woman who, stopping in front of the gate, called out to him in great excitement, as he sat with Berry Lawson on his porch waiting for his breakfast: "Oh, Bre'er Nimbus, what in de libbin' yairth is dis h'yer on your gate? La sakes, but de Kluckers is after you now, shore 'nough!"
It hard enough to see her look so pale and melercholy, widout t'inking of becomin' a wife." "Miss Grace will grow better, now Masser Mile carry her on de water. If he only take her to sea, she get so fat and hearty, no libbin' wid her!" Chloe did not acquiesce in this opinion; she rather insisted that "Miss Grace" was altogether too delicate and refined a person to live in a ship.
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