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"Oh," said some one at Doctor Keene's side, disposed to quiz, "you niggers don't know when you are happy." "Dass so, Mawse c'est vrai, oui!" she answered quickly: "we donno no mo'n white folks!" The laugh was against him. "Mawse Chawlie," she said again, "w'a's dis I yeh 'bout dat Eu'ope country? 's dat true de niggas is all free in Eu'ope!" Doctor Keene replied that something like that was true.
Your mistress and I are going to town to-morrow solely to get somebody to buy you, all four, together." "Mawse Ben," cried the slave, with strange earnestness, "don't you do dat! Don't you was'e no time dat a-way! You go see what you can sa-ave fo' you-all an' yone!" "For the creditors, you mean, Silas," said my aunt; "that's done." Hester had a question.
"You know him?" "Oh! yass, sah; Mawse Honoré knows me, yass. All de gen'lemens knows me. I sell de calas; mawnin's sell calas, evenin's sell zinzer-cake. "Dat me w'at pass in rue Royale ev'y mawnin' holl'in' 'Bé calas touts chauds, an' singin'; don't you know?"
"Now, you old hag," cried the sick man, his weak, husky voice trembling with passion, "you know you're telling me a lie." "No, Mawse Chawlie," she protested with a coward's frown, "I swah I tellin' you de God's trufe!" "Hand me my clothes off that chair." "Oh! but, Mawse Chawlie " The little doctor cursed her. She did as she was bid, and made as if to leave the room. "Don't you go away."
Put them out there on the table." The invalid, sitting up in bed, drew a purse from behind his pillow and tossed her a large price. She tittered, courtesied and received the money. "Well, well, Mawse Chawlie, 'f you ain' de funni'st gen'leman I knows, to be sho!" "Have you seen Joseph Frowenfeld to-day?" he asked. "He, he, he!
Oh, please now, you see? nutt'n' but a po' nigga's dr oh! fo' de love o' God, Miché Jean-Baptiste, don' open dat ah box! Y'en a rien du tout la-dans, Miché Jean-Baptiste; du tout, du tout! Oh, my God! Miché, on'y jis teck dis-yeh t'ing off'n my laig, ef yo' please, it's bit'n' me lak a dawg! if you please, Miché! Oh! you git kill' if you open dat ah box, Mawse Jean-Baptiste!
"I hope I's ready, but I hope to be spaihed a good many yeahs yit." "To do good, I suppose?" "Yes, suh; yes, suh. Fac' is, Mawse Gawge, I jes' hop up to ax you some'p'n." "Well, here I am." "I want to ax you I want to ax you er er I want " "Oh, speak out. I haven't time to be bothering here all day." "Well, you know, Mawse Gawge, some o' us ain' nigh ez ol' ez dey looks." "That's true.
"Now don't you fret one bit 'bout dat, Mawse Ben," exclaimed Sidney, with a happy heroism in her eyes that I remembered afterward. "'De Lawd is perwide!" "Strange," said my aunt to uncle and me aside, smiling in pity, "how slight an impression disaster makes on their minds!" and that too I remembered afterward.
"Oh, yes, but change of work is rest. And how's the rheumatism, now, any better?" "Bettah? Why, Mawse Gawge, I ain' got a smidgeon of hit. I's jes' limpin' a leetle bit on 'count o' habit." "Well, it's good if one can get well, even if his days are nearly spent." "Heish, Mas' Gawge. I ain' t'inkin' 'bout dyin'." "Aren't you ready yet, in all these years?"
A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my positive knowledge, you're not more than eighty-five." "Oh, Lawd. Mastah, do heish." "I'm not flattering you, that's the truth." "Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn' you mek me' look lak eighty-fo', an' be a little youngah?" "Why, what do you want to be younger for?" "You see, hit's jes' lak dis, Mawse Gawge.
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