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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Do you know a place around here called Fairfield?" he asked. "Yessah. I does that, sah. It's that ar' place right hyeh, sah, by yo' hoss. That ar's Fahfiel'. Shall I open the gate fo' you, boss?" and Philip turned to see a hingeless ruin of boards held together by the persuasion of rusty wire. "The home of my fathers looks down in the mouth," he reflected aloud.
"Hit's cert'nly good news fo' Fahfiel', Marse Philip, hit's mighty good news fo' us niggers, sah. I'se b'longed to the Fahfiel' fam'ly a hund'ed years, Marse me and my folks, and I wishes yo' a welcome home, sah welcome home, Marse Philip." Philip bent with a quick movement from his horse, and gripped the twisted old black hand, speechless.
The old negro's eyes, gleaming from under shaggy sheds of eyebrows, watched him, and he caught the words. "Is you a Fahfiel', boss?" he asked eagerly. "Is you my young Marse?" He jumped at the conclusion promptly. "You favors de fam'ly mightily, sah. I heard you was comin'"; the rag of a hat went off and he bowed low.
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