_HOW UNCLE MOSE COUNTED THE EGGS._
Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a
living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the
habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently
makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares
around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front
of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady came out to the
gate to make the purchases.
"Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed I has. Jes got in ten dozen from de kentry."
"Are they fresh?"
"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em
myse'f."
"I'll take nine dozen. You can count them in this basket."
"All right, mum." He counts: "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben,
eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin'
on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."
"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."
"Why, how ole am de boy?"
"He is eighteen."
"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and gettin' a salary already! eighteen
(counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free,
twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos'
growed up de las' time I seed her."
"She is married and living in Dallas."
"Wal, I declar. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns?
Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be about----"
"Thirty-three."
"Am dat so? (counting) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six,
firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two,
forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't
believe you has grand-childruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old
youself."
"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to
be fifty-three years old----"
"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah,
fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs,
so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two,
sixty-free, sixty-foah--whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah
when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You
comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years
ole."
"Seventy-two, Uncle Mose."
"Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five,
sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your
mudder? she was one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You
reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she
was done past a centurion when she died."
"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."
"Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six,
ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free,
foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen,
and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f."
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton
said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I
am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs,
for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are
gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and
there were nine dozen."
_THE NEGRO BABY'S FUNERAL._
I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim,
When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn;
And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew,
Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.
Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild;
On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.
I could picture him when living--curly hair, protruding lip--
And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.
But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death
That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering
breath;
And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound
Than was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners
round.
Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk--
With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque;
With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.
And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay--
For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away!
He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love;
But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.
"Now, he didn't give you that baby, by a hundred thousan' mile!
He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for a while!
An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts were bigger grown;
An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jest de interes' on the loan.
"Here's yer oder pretty childrun!--doan' be makin' it appear
Dat your love got sort o' 'nopolised by dis little fellow here;
Don' pile up too much your sorrow on dere little mental shelves,
So's to kind 'o set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves.
"Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' long o'er Sorrow's
way,
What a blessed little pic-nic dis yere baby's got to-day!
Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow round
In de angel-tended garden ob de big Plantation Ground.
"An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off his little
shoes,
An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say--'Now what's de
news?'
An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say--
'All our folks down in the valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.'
"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view;
Den a tear come an' he whispers--'But I want my parents too!'
But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song--
Says 'If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.'
An' he'll get an' education dat will proberbly be worth
Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;
He'll be in de Lawd's big schoolhouse, widout no contempt or fear;
While dere's no end to the bad tings might have happened to him
here.
"So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest,
An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows the best!
He have sent us many comforts--He have right to take away--
To the Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever! Let us pray!"