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"You cyarn see yo' han' befo' you fur de way dey's w'igglin' roun' de street, en w'at's mo' you cyarn heah yo' own w'uds fur de racket dey's a-kickin' up. Des lis'en ter 'em now, des lis'en!" "Oh, I wish I could tell our guns," murmured Dan at each quick explosion. "Hush! there comes the cheer, now somebody's charging! It may be our brigade, Big Abel, and I not in it."
Now he continued: "An' onct, when I wuz settin' in mah doh, dis same li'l man come pokin' 'long an' sez, sez he: 'Unc Zack, how-cum you kin see yoh knuckles when yoh fist is shet up tight, an' cyarn' see 'em when yoh han's out straight?" "That's one thing you never did tell me," the boy accusingly cried. "You couldn't!" "I couldn'?" he asked in pained surprise.
Ole Marster steal? Huh! he 'ouldn't even tech a chicken dat 'uz roos'in in his own yard. But dese yer sodgers! Why, you cyarn tu'n yo' eye a splinter off de vittles fo' dey's done got 'em. Dey poke dey han's right spang in de fire en eat de ashes en all." He went off grumbling to lie down at a little distance, and Dan sat thoughtfully looking into the smouldering fire.
The sun slipped low in the heavens. Out of the purple haze to the south, a wagon from Staunton way, drawn by oxen and piled high with forage, came up a side street. The ancient negro who drove was singing, "I saw de beam in my sistah's eye, Cyarn see de beam in mine! Yo'd better lef' yo' sistah's doah, An' keep yo' own doah fine! An' I had er mighty battle lak Jacob an' de angel "
"Dar's somebody got ter do de stealin' in dis yer worl'," he returned with rustic philosophy, "des es dar's somebody got ter be w'ite folks en somebody got ter be nigger, caze de same pusson cyarn be ner en ter dat's sho'. Dar ain' 'oom fer all de yerth ter strut roun' wid dey han's in dey pockets en dey nose tu'nt up des caze dey's hones'. Lawd, Lawd, ef I'd a-helt my han's back f'om pickin' en stealin' thoo dis yer wah, whar 'ould you be now I ax you dat?"
"Wang tell Mis' Pen'plok'," he would mutter, with a threatening glance from his beady eyes. "Ol' mis' won' believe you," Janey would make answer. "She knows dat you's a heathen, an' won' go to church. Cut off your great long plat, ef you don' wan' me to pull it no mo'. I cyarn' help it, ef it gits in my way, all de time."
Over the broad meadows, filled with scattered wild flowers, the sound of the chant still floated, with a shrill and troubled sweetness, upon the wind. As he listened the little negro broke into a jubilant refrain, beating his naked feet in the dust: "Gawd A'moughty bless you twel we Me et a gin." Then he looked slyly up at his young master. "I 'low dar's one thing you cyarn do, Marse Champe."
Take those irons off and let them cool." "Dat's so, Miss Cynthy, en I'se right down 'shamed er myse'f, sho' 'nough, but de shame er hit cyarn tu'n de heart er 'ooman. De debbil he sutnev did look young en peart, dat he did en de Lawd He knows, Miss Cynthy, I allers did like 'em young!
"She shan't do it, I tell you!" "Since when's you had de right to say what she kin do an' what she cyarn' do, I'd lak to know? But," she began to chuckle, "as you 'pears so upsot 'bout it, I'll tell you he ain' gwine arter Miss Jane. Now, better go home, an' not talk so loud!" Embarrassed, he started toward the house. "Bress yoh heart," she whispered to herself.
The negro had followed him, and now stood with his eyes upon the dying flames, muttering to himself some heathenish charm. When it was ended, he looked about him uneasily for a time; then bent and plucked his master by the sleeve. "We cyarn' do nothin' here, Marse Duke," he whispered. "An' the wolves may get the horses." With a laugh and a groan, the young man rose to his feet.
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