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To the enumerator, who must set down concise and exact answers to each of his questions, fifty or sixty daily scenes and replies something like these were delightful; Explosive laughter from the buxom, jet-black woman addressed. "He name 'Rasmus Iggleston." "What's his metal-check number?" "Lard, mahster, ah don' know he check number." "Haven't you a commissary-book with it in?"
We fought in Mississippi Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina." "When de war ended de Mahster moved us to Miller County, but not on de Adams farm. For de man whut used to own de farm said Uncle Sam hadn't made any such money as wuz paid him for de farm, so he wanted his farm back. Dat Confederate money wuzn't worth de paper it wuz printed on, so de Mahster had to gib him back de farm.
"And how old are you?" "Te! He! 'Deed ah don' know how ol' ah is; ah gone los' mah age paper." "Is he married?" "Can he read?" "What kind of work does he do?" "Yes, naturally. But what kind of work does he do. Is he a laborer?" Oh, no, mah sweet mahster, he jes' shovel away de dirt befo' de steam shovel." "All right. That 'll do for 'Rasmus. Now your name?" "Mah name Mistress Jane Iggleston."
Ah don rightly know mah age, mahster, mah mother never tol' me." St. Lucian woman, evidently about forty-five, after deep thought, plainly anxious to be as truthful as possible: "Er ah's twenty, sir." "Oh, you're older than that. About sixty, say?" "'Bout dat, sah." "Are you married?" To a Barbadian woman of forty: "Just you and your daughter live here?" "Dat's all, sir."
Far back in the interior of an Empire block I came upon an old, old negro woman, parchment-skinned and doddering, living alone in a stoop-shouldered shanty of boxes and tin cans. "Ah don' know how ol' ah is, mahster," was one of her replies, "but ah born six years befo' de cholera diskivered." "When did you come to Panama?" "Ah don' know, but it a long time ago." "Before the Americans, perhaps?"
"Lard no, mah love, commissary-book him feeneesh already befo' las' week." "Is he a Jamaican?" "No, him a Mont-rat, mahster." "What color is he?" "Te! He! Wha' fo' yo as' all dem questions, mahster?" "For instance." "Oh, him jes' a pitch darker'n me." "How old is he?" "Well, about how old?" "Oh, him a ripe man, mah love, him a prime man." "Is he older than you?" "Oh, yes, him older 'n me."
"Fer one, I sits in an' draw cards in your play cheerful," promptly responded Bill Ball; "kind o' hurt me too to see Reddy thar. An' then them animiles hain't gittin' no squar' deal. Never did believe in cagin' animiles more'n men. Ef they need it bad, kill 'em; ef they don't, give 'em a run fo' their money, way ol' Mahster meant 'em to have when He made 'em.
Or in a pouring rain: "'Pears like ole Mahster's got a durned fool idee we'uns is web-footed." Or in a driving snow storm: "Ef ole Mahster had to git rid o' this yere damn cold stuff, he might 'a dumped it on fellers what 's got more firewood handy." Vices? Well, such as the cowboy had, some one who loves him less will have to describe.
Why de Mahster would habe to round up de livestock each afternoon, put dem in pens, and den put out guards all night to keep de wolves and bears frum gettin' em. De folks didn't go gallivatin' round nights like dey do now or de varmints would get them. But den we didn't stay here but a few months until de Mahster's A.W.O.L. wuz up, so we had to go back and jine de army.
By an' by mah mahster sol' me an' mah baby to de man what had de plantation nex' to ours. His name was John Lee. He was good to me, an' let me see my chillens. I nevah got no beatin's. Onliest thing I evah got was a li'l slap on de han', lak dat. Didn't hurt none. But I'se seen cullud men on de Bradley plantation git tur'ble beatin's. De whippin' boss was Joe Sylvester, a white man.
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