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I nevah furgit de day dat my ol' Mas' Jack put me on 'June Boy, his black geldin', an' say to me, 'Si, says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen Cunnel Scott's mare, "No Quit," I's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'. Hyah, hyah. My ol' Mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. I knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me. "Did I win?
"A flash ob lightenin' what cl'ar par'lyzed me an' helt ma feet fast to de floo'! Den, befo' I could get 'em loosen' dat hant jist lif' his hoof yas ma'am, dat was a hoof, not no man's foot an' I 'clar cross ma heart he done hist me froo dat do' an' cl'ar down dem stairs. He want no man. He de debbil hissef. No siree, yo' ain' gettin' me back up dem stairs twell some white folks gwine fust.
Mas' Madison Mixon, hisse'f, was a mighty 'dulgent so't o' man, an' he liked a laugh bettah dan anyone in de worl'. Well, my man could mek him laugh, an' dat was enough fu' him. I used to lectuah dat man much 'bout his onshifless ways, but he des went erlong, twell bimeby hyeah come de wah an' evahthing was broke up.
"Yes, but ther road didn't do us no great lavish of good 'twell we deevised this hyar thing," her uncle reminded her. "Hit jest kinderly aggravated us. Ye see our fields lays on high ground an' ther railroad runs through a deep chasm. We kain't git down ter hit, nigh es hit be, withouten we teams over slavish ways fer siv'ral steep miles.
Old Spicer South drew a contemplative puff at his pipe. "Ye went ter school twell ye was ten year old, Samson. Thet's a heap more schoolin' then I ever had, an' I've done got along all right." "Ef my pap had lived" the boy's voice was almost accusing "I'd hev lamed more then jest ter read an' write en figger a little." "I hain't got no use fer these newfangled notions."
Praised be de name ob de Lawd. He gib me Sal again. De little Chile dat I nussed, dat I raised up in God's 'ligion. Mistah Cantah, save her, suh, f'om dat wicked life o' sin. De Lawd Jesus'll rewa'd you, suh. Dis ole woman'll wuk fo' you twell de flesh drops off'n her fingers, suh." And had he not held her, she would have gone down on her knees on the stone flagging before him.
Hit lasted nigh on ter two days." "What war ther upcome of ther matter?" inquired the householder, and the narrator went on: "Ther Harpers an' Thorntons went inside ther co'te house an' made a pint-blank fort outen hit, an' ther Rowletts tuck up thar stand in ther stores an' streets. They frayed on, thet fashion, twell ther Doanes wearied of hit an' sot ther co'te house afire.
Yessuh, Tom Montjoy is de sole one which dat Frank mule gives his confidences to, sech as dey is." Red Hoss snorted his contempt for his warning. "Huh, de trouble wid dat mule is he's pampered! You niggers done pamper him twell he think he owns dese whole ice-factory premises. Whut he need fur whut ails him is somebody which ain't skeered of him.
But he downright scared jes de same, an' he ain't lost no time, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves dey signerfy whut ain't no good. So he scoot past dat buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an' dat cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' dat grabeyard in de hollow, twell he come to de pumpkin-patch, an' he rotch down an' tek erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de patch.
Dey done come t'arin' back yonder ter de stable an' dey cotch holt ob my sleefs wid dey teefs, and dey yank and tug me 'long outen de do'. Den dis hyer Shashai, he stan' lak a statyer twell I hike me up on his back, den he kite away like de bery debbil axes yo' pardon, ma'am! an' hyer we-all is. Dat's all de how dar is ob it. Dey knows what folks 'specs ob 'em. Dey's eddicated hawses.
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