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Secon' half am dat Marse Cunnel found a jockey an' Queen Bess am gwine ter run." "Bless his heart!" she cried. "I wonder if it's wrong for me to pray that that jockey will win." She looked, almost embarrassed at the aged negro for a moment, and then, mustering up courage, said: "Neb, look here.
De doctuh say he's good fer a dozen years yit, ef he'll jes' take good keer of hisse'f an' keep f'm gittin' excited; fer sence dat secon' stroke, excitement is dange'ous fer 'im." "I'm sure you take the best care of him," returned Mrs. Carteret kindly. "You can't do anything for him, Sandy," interposed old Mrs. Ochiltree, shaking her head slowly to emphasize her dissent.
"I s'pose she's gwine dar if she don't go to dat boon where no trab'lers come back agin," answered Sopsy seriously. "Be you Meth'dis' o' Bab'tis', Massa Mate?" "Both, Sopsy." "Can't be bof, Massa." "Then I'm either one you like." "That ain't right, Massa Secon' Mate, 'cordin' as you was brung up," said the cook, shaking his head violently, as though he utterly disapproved of the mate's theology.
Why don't dey kill us too, like dey did all our folks? You used to be so hot fer dat ole Guv'ner Moses and say he was like de Moses in de Bible dat he was raised up fer ter lead de culled people to de promise' lan'. You vote fer him, an' hurrah fer him, an' whar's yer promise' lan'? Little you know 'bout Scripter when you say he secon' Moses. Don' want no more sich Moseses in dis town.
Dat showed what a debblish cute plan dat uv ole Mahs'r's was, though. "Lemme see, dat er wuz de fus er secon' year atter I wuz a plow-boy. Hit wuz right in de height ob de season, an' Marse War' dat was de oberseer he sent me to der Cou't House ob an ebenin' to do some sort ob arrant for him.
All he was able to say was, "That broth smells very nice, Jenifer." "Yissah. Dar ain't nuffin in dat sup buh a quart a thick cream, and de squeezin's of a hunerd clams, sah. Dat sup will make de angels sorry dey died. Dey'll just tink you'se dreful unkine not to offer dem a secon' help. Buh doan yo' do it, sah, foh when dey gits to dem prayhens, dey'll be pow'ful glad yo' didn't."
I were born de secon' o' September in 1842. My mammy b'longed to de Stephensons an' my pappy b'longed to Marster Lewis Barnes. His plantation wasn't so very far from Stephenson. De Stephensons an' Barneses were kin' white people. My pappy were a old man when I were born I were de baby chil'. After he died, my mammy marry a McAllum Nigger. "Dey were 'bout thirty slaves at Stephenson.
A man may marry many times, but he can never love but once. Sometimes it's his fust wife, sometimes his secon', an' often it's the sweetheart he never got but he loved only one of 'em the right way, an' up yander, in some other star, where spirits that are alike meet in one eternal wedlock, they'll be one there forever."
I could'a slep' on de trun'le bed, but it was so easy jes to roll over an' blow dem ashes an' mek dat fire burn. "Ole Miss was so good, I'd do anything fer her. She was so good an' weighed' round 200 poun's. She was Marse Bob's secon' wife. Nobody 'posed on me, No, Sir!
He hadn't made no secon' ch'ice yit an', you know, when de fust one of a parted couple marries ag'in, dey 'bleeged to take to de broomstick less'n dey go whar 'tain't known on 'em. Dat's de rule o' divo'cemint. When Yaller Silvy married my Joe wid a broomstick, dat lef' me free for a chu'ch marriage. An' I tell you, I had it, too.
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