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Updated: August 31, 2025
Marse Dave?" "Yes?" I said. "Marse Dave, she have a lil pink frock dat Marsa Nick had when he was a bebby. I done cotch Mistis lookin' at it, an' she hid it when she see me an' blush like 'twas a sin. Marse Dave?" "Yes?" I said again. "Where am de young Marsa?" "I don't know, Lindy," I answered. Lindy sighed. "She done talk 'bout you, Marse Dave, an' how good you is " "And Mrs.
Chunk asked, quickly. "Yes, and Lincoln is a good friend of yours." "Hi! I knows dat. W'at fer you so hidin'-in-de-grass, granny? No use bein' dat away wid a Linkum man." "I ain' talkin' 'bout my young mistis to folks ez drap down fum de clouds." "You wouldn't like me better if I came up from below, aunty.
The woman's voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the American tide-water. "I should like to see Mrs. Clive," I answered. The door closed a shade. "Mistis sick, she ain't see nobody," said the woman. She closed the door a little more, and I felt tempted to put my foot in the crack. "Tell her that Mr. David Ritchie is here," I said. There was an instant's silence, then an exclamation.
"My old Marster was de bes' man in de worl'. I jus' wish I could tell, an' make it plain, jus' how good him an' old Mistis was. Marster was a rich man. He owned 'bout a thousand an' five hund'ed acres o' lan' an' roun' a hund'ed slaves. Marster's big two-story white house wid lightning rods standin' all 'bout on de roof set on top of a hill.
Helena's. There were curious eyes watching from the fields, and here by the roadside an aged black woman came to her cabin door. "Lord!" exclaimed Peter, "what kin I do now? An' ole Sibyl, she's done crazy too, and dey'll be mischievous together." The steer could not be hurried past, and Sibyl came and leaned against the wheel. "Mornin', mistis," said Sibyl, "an' yo' too, Peter. How's all?
When any of 'em would git sick dey would go to de woods an' git herbs an roots an' make tea for 'em to drink. Hogweed an' May apples was de bes' things I knowed of. Sometimes old Mistis doctored 'em herse'f. One time a bunch o' us chillun was playin' in de woods an foun' some o' dem May apples. Us et a lot of 'em an' got awful sick. Dey dosed us up on grease an' Samson snake root to clean us out.
"Ninety-nine times out of a hundred," said an old bricklayer of the village, baffled by some error in his work "ninety-nine times out of a hundred it'll come right same as you sets it out, but not always." Puzzles were allowed to be puzzling, and left so; or the first explanation was accepted as final. The "mistis in March" sufficiently accounted for the "frostis in May."
De mistis 'ud dress me up an' I'd carry de likker an' drinks' roun' 'mongst de peoples. 'Would you prefer dis here mint julip, Marster? Or maybe you'd relish dis here special wine o' de Judge's. 'Dem white folks sho' could lap up dem drinks, too. De Judge had de bes' o' ever'thing. "Dey was always a heap o' fresh meat in de meat house.
"Marse Bob died right here in dis here house. He died a po' man. If my old mistis had a-been here she wouldn' a-let' em treat him like dey done. If I'd a-been here I wouldn' a-let' em done like dat, neither. "I been a-livin' by myse'f since my wife died. My son, Oscar, lives on de lan' an' rents it from me. "I don't know what's gwine a-happen to de young folks now-a-days.
"I was born in Harrison County, 19 miles from Pass Christian, 'long de ridge road from de swamp near Wolf River. My Marster was Ursan Ladnier. De Mistis' name was Popone. Us was all French. My father was a white man, Anatole Necaise. I knowed he was my father, 'cause he used to call me to him an' tell me I was his oldes' son. "I never knowed my mother.
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