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Updated: May 27, 2025
Uncle Jimpson, carrying the dog along on his foot, led the way, while Mrs. Sequin, with the cautious tread of a stout person used to the treacheries of oriental rugs on hardwood floors, followed. She was a woman of full figure and imposing presence, whose elaborate coiffure and attention to detail in dress, gave evidence that the world had its claims.
He threw Jimpson last week." "Well, I'm not Jimpson. Please, Daddy, just this once." "If that's the little beast Wick was telling me about," said Morley, "we are certainly not going to trust you on him." The Colonel leaned back upon his knees where he knelt on the porch, and glared at Morley. "Who do you mean by we?" "The conservative party of which I, for once, am a member.
Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says: "Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim."
Uncle Jimpson, plowing near by, looked up and smiled: "Dat's right, Honey; sounds lak ole times to hear you singin' ag'in. I was jus' settin' here steddyin' how good I'd feel ef de Cunnel could come a stompin' 'long an' gimme one of his 'fore-de-war cussin's fer bein' lazy." "Oh, Uncle Jimpson, if he could! It seems so long since he left us.
She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat. "I never did see the beat of that boy!" She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom.
"I certainly is glad dem freezers come," said Uncle Jimpson, tucking in the lap robe; "I shore would hate to go back widout 'em. De Cunnel used to say dat was what niggers was born fer, to git what you sent 'em after." "Who is the Colonel?" asked the stranger with a quick glance of recognition at the old negro. "Cunnel Bob Carsey. My old marster. He's dead now, an' Mrs.
Sequin's to-night?" Uncle Jimpson eyed the bags suspiciously. "'Scuse me, sir, but you ain't sellin' nothin', is you?" The laugh that greeted this was so spontaneous, that Uncle Jimpson hastened to apologize: "I nebber thought you wuz, only we wasn't lookin' fer no railroad company, an' I 'lowed you didn't look lak you wuz comin' to de party."
Sequin, her ample figure encased in an armor of glistening black spangles, and her elaborately puffed coiffure surmounted by an incipient helmet of blazing gems. "Pull those portieres back a trifle," she commanded, "and lower that window from the top. Has Jimpson gone to the station for the Queeringtons?" "Yes, madam, half an hour ago," answered the maid.
The great occasion of which Uncle Jimpson had dreamed all his life, had at last arisen, and instead of being allowed to rise with it, and prove his indisputable right to butlerhood, he had been detailed to drive back and forth to the station over that same humdrum Cane Run Road that he and Old John had helped to wear away for the past quarter of a century!
"Jimpson," the Colonel looked up reproachfully, "did you hear that? You have actually let me get down to four handkerchiefs." "And socks," continued Caroline, enjoying the opportunity of emphasizing the shortcomings of her lesser half, "'bout sebenteen, all singles. No two scarcely de same color." "Miss Lady, she been 'cumulatin' 'em to darn 'em," explained Jimpson, glad to shift responsibility.
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