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Hit'll go mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top er years er layin' uv it up, an' hit's er mighty, cumfut ter me er countin' an' er jinglin' uv it; but hit ain't doin' nobody no good er buried in de groun', an' I don't special need it myse'f, caze you gives me my cloes, an' my shoes, an' my eatin's, an' my backer, an' my wisky, an' I ain't got no cazhun fur ter spen' it; an' let erlone dat, I can't stay hyear fureber, er countin' an' er jinglin' dat money, wen de angel soun' dat horn, de ole nigger he's got ter go; he's boun' fur ter be dar! de money can't hol' 'im!
Here Daddy Jake happened to look down, and he caught Polly nodding. "Oh yes!" said the old man, "yer may nod; dat's des wat's de matter wid de niggers now, dem sleepy-head ways wat dey got is de cazhun uv dey hyar bein' kunkt up an' dey skins bein' black." "Is that what makes it, Daddy?" asked Diddie, much interested. "Ub cose hit is," replied Daddy.
"I ain't neder one, marster; but den I'm er jokin' too much, mo'n de 'lenity uv de cazhun inquires, an' now I'll splain de facks, sar." And Uncle Rob related Ann's story to his master, and wound up by saying: "An' now, marster, my min', hit's made up. I wants ter buy de little chap, an' give 'im ter his mammy, de one wat God give 'im to.
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