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Then rising and turning away his head, he extended his hand to Le Moyne and said: "Good-bye, Marse Hesden! God bress yer! Take good keer o' 'Liab, Mahs'r, an' an' ef he gits round agin, don't let him try ter stay h'yrabouts don't, please! 'Tain't no use! See ef yer can't git him ter go ter de Norf, er somewhar.
An' jes' as you was comin' up I was gwine ter tell him a par'ble 'bout sticken ter truf. An' if you's got time, Mahs'r Morris, I'd be pow'ful glad ter tell you de par'ble, an' let you 'cide 'tween us." "Very well," said Mr. Morris, "go on with your parable." "Dis yere par'ble," said Grandison, "has got a justifyin' meanin' in it, an' it's 'bout a bar an' a' possum.
He released her then, and followed Olly into the dining-room, where a small but sumptuous repast was laid, for nothing in the house above nor in the cellar beneath was considered too good for young mahs'r.
"Well, then, that's yours, ain't it your surname Nimbus Desmit?" "Reckon not, Mahs'r." "No? Why not?" "Same reason his name ain't Nimbus, I s'pose." "Well," said the officer, laughing, "there may be something in that; but a soldier must have two names. Suppose I call you George Nimbus?" "Yer kin call me jes' what yer choose, sah; but my name's Nimbus all the same.
They denied him his oath, fastened him to the land, compelled him to hire by the year, required the respectfulness of the old slave "Mahs'r" and "Missus," made his employer liable for his taxes, and allowed recoupment therefor; limited his avocations and restricted his opportunities. These would substitute serfdom for chattelism.
"Oh, hold on," said Desmit; "how old is it, Lorency?" "Jes' sebben weeks ole dis bressed day, Mahs'r," said the proud mother as she vanished into the kitchen to boast of her good-fortune in getting two silver dollars out of Marse Desmit instead of the one customarily given by him on such occasions.
"Perhaps nothing," answered 'Liab, "but yourself. You must not do it." "Pshaw, now," said Nimbus, " what sort o' way is dat ter hev things? I tell ye what orter been done, 'Liab; when de law married us all, jes out of han' like, it orter hev named us too. Hit mout hev been done, jes ez well's not. Dar's old Mahs'r now, he'd hev named all de niggas in de county in a week, easy.
Morris had ridden away, "you see I's right in my 'clusions, and Mahs'r Morris 'grees with me." "Dunno," said Brother 'Bijah, shaking his head, "dis is a mighty dubersome question. You kep' dem apples clar out o' sight, Brudder Gran'son; clar out o' sight."
None ob yer bleached out yaller sort of coffee-cullud nigger 'bout him. De rale ole giniwine kind, dat a coal make a white mark on. Yah I yah! what yer gwine ter name him, Mahs'r? Gib him a good name, now, none o' yer common mean ones, but jes' der bes' one yer got in yer book;" for Colonel Desmit was writing in a heavy clasped book which rested on a light stand beside him. "What is it, Mahs'r?"
"It 'pears ter me, Brudder 'Bijah, dat you doan' look at dem apples in de right light. If I was gwine ter sell 'em to git money ter buy a lot o' spotted calliker ter make frocks for de chillen, or eben to buy two pars o' shoes fur me an' Judy ter go to church in, dat would be a sin, sartin shuh. But you done furgit dat I's gwine ter take de money ter Mahs'r Morris.
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