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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Neber die, nohow!" answered Aunt Judy. "Mighty offen she thought she gwine to die but 'twarnt no use. She can't do it. An' de las' time I hear ob her, she alibe yit, jes' de same as eber. An' dar was Mahs' John Keswick.
I t'ink it was witchcraft and debbilment, dat's what I t'ink," whispered Katie, rolling her eyes mysteriously. "Tell us what you do know, however," said Ishmael. "Well, all I know is jus' dis: I had to keep my eyes open day and night to dribe de rats away. And tired and sleepy as I was, I dar'n't go to sleep, for fear as dey would 'vour me alibe.
But arter dat I was open to conwiction; which you know, Marse Ishmael, I was allers ob a lib'ral, 'lightened turn o' mind! And so I gib in as we was all alibe." "Well, and what then, Katie? How did you reconcile yourself to your lot?" "Well, Marse Ishmael, you know how it is wid us poor cullered folks, as can't eben call our childun our own?
And I beliebe it would, on'y dere came a divurtisement. For you see, I sets myself down in my 'spair, on de cole stone floor; and soon as ebber I does dat, a whole passel o' rats come a- nosin' and a-smellin' at me, and nibblin' my shoes 's if dey'd like to 'vour me alibe; and it tuk all my time and 'tention to dribe dem away." "That was horrible, Katie," said Ishmael, in a tone of sympathy.
The least of her fictions was this: "Chillun, I was fust kilt dead, den buried alibe, and kept so till wanted; den fotch to life ag'in, and sold to pirates, and took off to de Stingy Isles, and sold ag'in into slabery; arter which Marster Ishmael Worf drapped right down out'n de clear sky inter de middle ob de street, and if you don't beliebe it jes go ax Marse Ishmael hisse'f, as nebber told a falsehood in his life."
"It sho' am de strangest t'ing, Massa Jack, ebber I prognosticated. I was jest comin' roun' de corner ob Sheeny Joe's shebang, back dar by de blacksmith shop, when de Lawd save me! yere come ol' Massa Waite, a ridin' 'long on a cream colo'd pinto just as much alibe as ebber he was.
"Yah, yah, so 'tis alibe," said the negro owner of the craft which Bodine had hired for their excursion. "Young Marse Houghton sail dat boat, an' he beats any duck dat eber swum." Ella's breath came quick, and she turned pale and red in her conflicting feelings, for it was evident that Houghton was purposely keeping near to them.
"Dat are question frew de 'possum inter a pow'ful sweat. If he told de truf an' said he was alibe he knowed well 'nuf dat de bar would gobble him up quicker'n if he'd been a hot ash cake an' a bowl of buttermilk; but if he said he was dead so's de bar wouldn't eat him, de bar, like 'nuf, would know he lied, an' would eat him all de same.
"Now, look yar, Geo'ge," said the negro, remonstratively, "you is a slabe; das a fact, an' no application ob fut rule or compasses, or the mul'plication table, or any oder table, kin change dat. Dere you am a slabe! But you ain't a 'bused slabe, a whacked slabe, a tortered slabe, a dead slabe. You're all alibe an' kickin', Geo'ge!
If you don't 'cide pretty quick, I'll put a big rock a-top o' you, an' stop fer you answer when I come back in de ebenin'. Now dis gib de 'possum a pow'ful skeer, an' 'twas cl'ar to his min' dat he mus' 'cide de question straight off. If he tole de truf, and said he was alibe, he'd be eat up shuh; but if he said he was dead, de bar mought b'lieve him.
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