By Will N. Harben, Author of “Abner Daniel.”
One day in midsummer I went to visit the old plantation of the Lansdale
family. The moment I entered the cooling shade of the tall trees on the
lawn something seemed to tell me that I was on a spot hallowed by human
suffering and misfortune.
The house had two stories and an L. There was a long veranda in front,
the roof of which was supported by large white columns. My interest in
the place was due to the fact that prior to the Civil War it had been
the rendezvous of the aristocracy for miles around it. The wide halls
and spacious rooms had once rung with gay laughter, sweet music and the
tripping of feet in merry dances.
Behind the uninhabited dwelling the shrubbery had grown into a riotous
tangle. Choice rose bushes had been dwarfed and choked to barrenness by
an army of interlopers—Jamestown weeds, hollyhocks and giant sunflowers.
Only here and there might be seen a pale-leaved geranium or a dandelion
in the edges of the gravel walks, now almost completely overgrown. Here,
bent to the earth, lay a decayed lattice, pulled down by a fragrant
jasmine; in another place stood the rotten remains of what had once been
a graceful summerhouse.
As I wended my way further from the old mansion the silence and shade
seemed to thicken and blend into the pervading melancholy. When about
two hundred yards from the house, I suddenly came upon a log cabin
almost hidden from view behind a close growth of gnarled and twisted
apple trees. In the door sat an old negro man. His face was pinched and
wrinkled and his eyes, peeping through their brown slits, looked like
blue beads. With his old bell-shaped hat on his knee, he glanced up in
surprise, and, rising quickly he hobbled towards me, bowing politely.
“Who dis heer?” he asked, as he shaded his eyes with his hand and peered
up at me. “It seems like I don’t know you, but you may know who I is.
Most white folks knows me, dough, thank de Lawd! I carn’t see you good,
suh; my sight is failin’ me powerful fast.”
“I’m a stranger in this part of the South,” I told him. “I have heard
so much about the Lansdale family that I wanted to see their old home;
that’s all. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Lawdamussy, bless you, no, suh!” he replied quickly. “You is welcome
to roam ’round all you want. Ef ’twuz des in de ol’ time, suh, my young
marster, er my ol’ marster, would done met you down de carriage drive an’
’scort’ you in an’ took yo’ hat an’ pass roun’ de wine an’ cigars, but”
(a long sigh escaped his lips, and he shook his head sadly), “but dat
time done gone, suh—dat time done gone.”
“Tell me something about your master’s family,” I said, taking a chair
near his own at the cabin door. “I have heard that Mr. Lansdale’s only
son was killed during the war when he was hardly more than a child.”
“Dat so, suh,” the old man answered in a tender tone, as he sat down in
his chair and leaned it back against the wall. “Dat was Marse Eddie. He
wasn’t fifteen year old when he ’listed. It all come o’ him actually
itchin’ ter be a soldier from his cradle up. Long ’fo’ de war was ever
start up, when he wasn’t ten year old he had soldierin’ in his head, an’
nobody couldn’t stop ’im. His maw say he wouldn’t study his school books
lessen dey tell ’bout wars an’ bloodshed. Away back den Marse Eddie’s
soldierin’ was de chief talk ’mongst de slaves.
[Illustration:
“He wasn’t fifteen year old when he ’listed.”
]
“He didn’t keer fur hosses, ur fishin’, ur huntin’ like other boys, but
ef you des mention soldierin’ he would pick up his ears an’ open his
eyes. He used to had his army, an’ what you reckon dat army was made
out’n, suh? Nothin’, ’cept ten ur ’leven pickaninnies in deir shut-tails
an’ bare laigs. But, suh, dey would march round dis plantation tell dey
raidy to drap in deir tracks to please dat boy. An’ dey didn’t know no
mo’ ’bout what a rail army was dan a blind kitten. But ’fore he got thoo
wid um, Marse Eddie had um trained so dey will march straight in er
breast-line, ur wheel round, double-quick step, an’ charge bayonets when
he give de command des de same as reg’lar troups.
“Des as soon as he had his breakfust in de mawnin’ Marse Eddie ’ud tramp
out’n de house wid his hat pinned up on one side an’ his pants stuck in
his red-top boots an’ old Miss’ shawl flung acrost his shoulder to make
’im look like a general.
“He would al’ays find his army at de front do’ pushin’ an’ kickin’ one
’nother, all um tryin’ to be haid in de row. But when dey see ’im dey
stand mighty quiet kase he done whacked deir laigs too often wid his
stick sword. Den Marse Eddie ud stand on de veranda wid his maw ur Miss
Grace long side o’ him while he call de roll. It uster sound mighty funny
’fo’ any of us know how it was gwine to end.
“James Lansdale! Heer! Thomas Lansdale! Heer! Abrum Lansdale! Heer! Tobe
Lansdale! Heer! an’ so on dey all answered deir names. Old Marster listen
to ’em one day while he was smokin’ on de veranda an’ low to ’im, he
did—des jokin’: ’Son’, he say, smilin’ like he al’ays did, ’I do hope
an’ pray you won’t have no diverses in battle, kase it would be too bad
to had we-all’s kin-folks in Firginny read in de papers dat so many
Lansdales is kilt in war. Seem like dey is a sight of um in yo’ army.’
“Young Marster didn’t say nothin’ but it sorter made ’im mad. He got raid
in de face, an ordered de string o’ darkies to shoulder deir stick guns
an’ march off todes de spring-house, whar he say he count on campin’ out
an’ ’rangin’ ’bout buildin’ abridge cross de branch so dey kin git at de
enemy prowlin’ round. Dat’s de way he carried on, an’ all de darkies in
his crowd held deir haids so high dey wouldn’t speak to de niggers on de
place j’inin’ we-all’s plantation, an’ dey got so triflin’ dat dey wasn’t
fittin’ fur anything but fightin’ under Marse Eddie.
“Miss Grace cert’ney did keer mo fur her brother dan she did fur anything
in de worl’, even de young mens dat come to see ’er. Anything Marse Eddie
do is des right. She made ’im his newniform, an’ flags, an’ his raid
sash, an’ gloried in ’im.
“He was off in Firginny at his uncle’s when de sho-nough war broke out.
Old Marster had done made up his company in we-all’s settlement an’ was
most raidy to go. De very same day dat de guns come dat dey was waitin’
on, who shall ride up on a hoss des reekin’ wid sweat but Marse Eddie. He
lef’ de hoss in de front yard an’ run in de dinin’ room whar his maw an’
sister was. He kissed um mighty quick an’ strange like an’ den say, ‘Whar
is father?’
“Old Miss an’ young Miss bofe turn pale an’ trembly, but dey ain’t say
a word at fust. Den Marse Eddie say powerful impatient, ‘Grace, whar is
father?’
“‘He’s down in de quarter,’ she say an’ den when de boy done lef’ de room
most as quick as a skeerd rabbit kin jump, de two women look one ’nother
in de face fer a long time powerful still an’ troubled. Den old Miss say,
mighty husky in ’er throat:
“‘He must not go, Grace; I carn’t stand it; he’s too young—I carn’t stand
dat!’
“De tears was comin’ in young Miss’ eyes an’ she left ’er maw an’ went
an’ stood in de kitchen do’ to meet Marse Eddie an’ his paw as dey was
comin’ up de garden walk, talkin’ low an’ arm in arm. Somehow young
Marster looked like he was all at once as old an’ ’sponsible as his paw.
When dey was bofe in de house, Miss Grace tuck ’er brurr by de arm an’
led ’im off to one side, an’ I heer ’er say:
“‘Brurr Eddie, father is goin’ off to fight de Yankees an’ me’n mother
carn’t live by ourse’ves. You must stay wid us—one is enough to lose.’
“‘Oh, sister,’ Marse Eddie say, very impatient. ‘Don’t talk nonsense at
sech a serious moment. Father, did you say all yo’ men gwine be raidy in
de mawnin’? We must not had no mistakes. I’m not tired. I believe I’ll
git a fresh hoss an’ ride round mongst ’em.’
“Well, suh, dat was de end o’ de women folks tryin’ to ’fluence ’im. It
seem to me dat he was every bit an’ grain as sensible as his pa. It look
like Marster was too backward ’bout tryin’ to make ’im stay at home. De
next day all marched off an’ dey tuck all de men slaves ’cep’ me. Dey
lef’ me kase I was too lame to march an’ somebody had to stay at home.
“Den a whole year went by. Sometimes letters ud come an’ sometimes word
ud reach us in one way an’ another. Den old Miss tuck down sick, an’ Miss
Grace kept all de bad news from ’er ’bout de war. Den come a letter from
Marse Eddie hisse’f. He writ dat he is a little wounded in de arm an’ dat
he got a furlough to come home an’ will be wid us as soon as he kin git
thoo de lines. But de time went by, day in, day out fur a week an’ no mo’
news ’cep’ old Marster writ dat de boy is done put out fur home some time
back; so dar we is—old Marster say he ain’t in de war, an’ he ain’t got
to we-all.
“While we-all in dis fix an’ worriment, de Yankee army des swoop down on
us lake a swarm o’ grass-hoppers. Dar wasn’t a single Rebel ’cep’ women
folks an’ me anywhars around. Den we know dat Marse Eddie is cut off fum
us. While de Yankees is camped round us as thick as fleas, a old man come
to us, he did, an’ said he’d met up wid Marse Eddie one day up in de
mountains what you kin see over dar, an’ ’at he was mighty nigh starved
to death an’ unable to git stuff to eat.
“Marse Eddie tol’ de man ’at he’d started home on his furlough but was
tuck down sick at a house on de way, an’ when he got so he could travel
an’ come nigh home de Yankees done s’round us so he earn’t git home nur
back to his regiment nuther. So he was des obleeged to stay hidin’ out in
de woods like a wild animal. Dis news got, to ol’ Miss, an’ it made her
wuss an’ we ’lowed she gwine die sho’.
“One night I woke up kase I heerd somebody walkin’ on de porch, an’ when
I went to de do’ dar is young Miss standin’ dar lookin’ to’ds de Yankee
camp what you could see fum de’r fires dey kept burnin’ so we couldn’t
slip up on um an’ throttle um in de’r sleep.
“‘Don’t tell mother, Ham’ she say; ‘po’ thing, she’s very sick, an’ we
mustn’t ’sturb ’er. I carn’t sleep wid all dis on my mind. How do we
know, Ham, but my po’ brother may be dis minute in gre’t danger? I must
keep watch kase I know in reason he’ll try to pass thoo de lines some
night to get to we-all’s, an’, Ham, somebody must be up to receive ’im
an’ hide ’im less’n dey catch ’im an’ try to kill ’im.’
“She was alraidy a-cryin’, an’ I didn’t have de heart to tell ’er how
dangersome it was to try to pass guards on picket duty, kase I had heerd
’bout one po’ feller gittin’ daylight let thoo ’im while he was tryin’ to
do it on his all-fours.
“It was as still, suh, dat night as a graveyard. De wind wasn’t blowin’
’nough to move a blade o’ wavy grass. An’ all of a sudden I heerd a sound
way down de road like somebody’s feet—pit-pat, pit-pat, comin’ nigher an’
nigher. Den we heer somebody a-pantin’ mighty nigh out’n breath.
“Young Miss laid ’er han’ on ’er breast an’ breathed hard. De sound kept
gittin’ closer an’ closer tell all at once somebody sprung over de fence
into de yard. My Gawd, it was Marse Eddie, an’ no dead white pusson could
look paler’n he did an’ so thin an’ raggety.
“‘Grace,’ he say, blowin hard, ‘is dis you? My Gawd, sister, dey is atter
me. I started to slip thoo de lines an’ dey seed me an’ so I had to run
fur my life. Do you heer um?’
“We all listen an’ sho ’nough we heerd de Yankees comin’ as fast as dey
kin lick it. Young Miss carn’t speak; she des throwed ’er arms ’roun ’er
brurr’s neck an’ tried to pull ’im in de house. But he say, ‘No, no; I
mus’ run furder; dey gwine s’arch dis house fust place, kase we-all fur
de Souf—good-bye!’ an’ ’fo’ Miss Grace could open ’er mouf he’s off thoo
de woods an’ out o’ sight in de dark, dough he wasn’t runnin’ out’n a
slow dog-trot kase he was too broke down. In a minute ’bout ten men jump
de fence an’ come to us.
“‘Here he is!’ one of um say, an’ he stuck a pistol in my face fur de
worl’ like he gwine blow my brains out. Dis was a sho ’nough s’prise to
me, I tell you, fur it was a powerful good chance fur young Miss ter
tell um, yes, I was de one, an’ git um to stop runnin’ after her brurr.
I didn’t know what she was gwine to do ’bout it, but it didn’t suit me
one bit. I never seed de line o’ pickets I’d try to run thoo, an’ my time
hadn’t come to die nohow.
“But one of de men say, ‘No, it was a white man, an’ a reb to boot kase
I seed his face an’ his newniform. Dis is des a’ ol’ nigger dat stays
’roun’ dis house.’ Den he up an’ ’dress young Miss. ‘Young lady,’ he ax
’er, ‘is a man pass heer des now?’
“Well, suh, I ’lowed she wouldn’t find ’er tongue, she was so bad put
out, but she up an’ say: ‘No, suh, not sence I been standin’ here,’ an’
she say it as cool as ef she was des givin’ ’im a passin’ s’lute. But I
reckon dat officer seed thoo ’er kase he said: ‘Some o’ you fellers run
down dat way an’ fo’ of us will s’arch de house. Miss,’ he say to Miss
Grace, ‘we all know you is fur de downfall o’ de republic, an’ you mus’
’scuse me fur not takin’ yo’ word, but we is been fooled so many times by
you women in de Souf dat we got to be partic’lar.’
“Wid dat, fo’ of um go thoo we-all’s house fum bottom to top an’ ol’ Miss
was mighty nigh ’stracted. She riz bodily fum ’er bed an’ fronted um. It
was a big wonder to me dat dem Yankees ain’t shot ’er daid in ’er tracks
fur de way she belittled um.
“‘You dirty gang o’ raid-hand murderers an’ cut-th’oats,’ she say,
‘I hope an’ pray high heaven will fall down on you an’ crush you in
everlastin’ punishment. You ain’t satisfied wid takin’ our sons an’
husbands fum us, but you must go an’ tromple our houses wid yo’ muddy
feet an’ fo’ce yo’ ugly se’ves into de sick rooms o’ yo’ betters. Dat
shows yo’ raisin’; no Southern gen’man ain’t gwine be so brutish.’
“‘Now, madam,’ de leader say as cool as a watermelon in a deep spring,
‘des keep on yo’ jacket. You ketch yo’ death wid cold, A sudden change
fum a warm bed is a bad thing whar doctors is so scarce, anyhow. You
better not ’cite yo’se’f—’twon’t do a speck o’ good, an’ in fact you
ain’t lookin’ well. You act sorter s’picious. Ef dar is a spy in yo’
house we gwine have ’im fur our meat, an’ all yo’ rampageousness won’t
stop us. Dough, I make bold to say, madam, dat we-all ud like to have you
on we-all’s side. At close range dat tongue o’ yo’n ud beat a grape-gun
all holler.’
“Ol’ Miss didn’t say anything back. She looked out’n ’er eyes, dough,
like you seed a balkin’ mule ’fo’ now, mebby, when his laigs is been tied
together to break ’im fum kickin’ an’ you stan’ hind ’im wid a whip an’
sorer tap ’im in de flank atter he found out he earn’t kick ’nough to
skeer a hoss-fly off’n his back.
“Well, dey all go plumb thoo de house widout a speck ur luck, ’cep’ what
dey come acrost in de cupboard. When dey et all dey want an’ is raidy to
go, de head man say to ol’ Miss: ‘Madam,’ he say, lookin’ at me kinder
’chievous, ‘we got some work in de camp to be done an’ dis ol’ nigger
mus’ go an’ tend to it. We’ll sen’ ’im back in de mawnin’ sho ef he gits
thoo.’
“Dat ain’t de fust time I had to do odd jobs fur um, an’ I ain’t
s’prised. I had to march back wid one lill swivelly white man dat I could
a-mashed twixt my fingers like a skeeter, an’ I would a-tried it, too,
ef he hadn’t kep’ a musket level’ on me de whole time. De other soldiers
went on after Marse Eddie.
“He’s a spy,’ I heer um say, as dey went off, ’an’ he carn’t git away,
nuther, kase he is s’rounded on all sides an’ day is breakin’.’
“By de time we got to de camp de sun was ’ginnin’ to rise an’ a kettle
drummer was out wakin’ um all up wid his clatter. I had to he’p wash
dishes at de officer’s tent, an’ all dat mawnin’ I heerd um axin’ one
another is de spy done kotch. To’ds dinner de men all come back an’ wid
um was po’ Marse Eddie. He was so weakly dey had to mos’ drap ’im along.
Pon my word, I don’t b’lieve de boy know who had ’im; he looked so wild
out o’ his raid eyes.
“Dey tuck ’im to a big tent an’ all de officers got in it and held a
court martial—dat’s what dey called it. I couldn’t heer a word dat
passed, but de Lawd know I seed Marse Eddie was in a bad fix, kase dey
was makin’ sech a big to-do.
“Terrectly dey all come out de tent. De haid man ’mongst um give a order
an’ ’bout ten men come up wid deir guns an’ formed a line o’ battle. Den
dey marched Marse Eddie out wid his back to a tree. You know, suh, I kin
’member when young Miss an’ ’im used to go to dat selfsame sweetgum when
dey was lill. He used to take his knife an’ gouge out de gum an’ put it
twixt ’er white teeth an’ she’s say, ‘Quick, Brurr Eddie, give me some
dat’s hard ’fo’ my teeth stick together—dis heer is too saft.’
“Den young Marster ud take some o’ de dry gum in his fingers, kase it
wouldn’t lay on de knife-blade, an’ when he’d make ’er shet ’er eyes he’d
drap it in ’er mouf. Yes, suh, I kin ’member dat as plain as ef ’twas
yesterday.
“Well, when dey got de po’ droopy young man agin de tree, an’ yell at ’im
to hold his haid up, all de big, strappin’ soldiers stand in front an’ de
captain drilled um. All deir clothes looked so blue an’ deir buttons an
shoulder straps flashed in de sun like a lookin’-glass in de light. Seem
like I kin heer de same locust a-singin’ in de woods right now dat was
singin’ den. De sky was blue, an’ wide open, des like Gawd Almighty done
tore de clouds apart so Marse Eddie’s white soul could git away fum dat
measly crowd o’ blood-thirsty cowards. I knowed I couldn’t do a thing to
help ’im, an’ I tried to hold steady an’ take one las’ look at my young
Marster, but I couldn’t see any plainer dan you kin thoo a frosty window.
But when de captain say, ‘Raidy, take aim!’ I looked away. De guns all
went off wid one crack, an’ when de smoke is ris’ a lill, I seed Marse
Eddie settin’ on de groun’ agin de tree wid his haid down des fur de
world like I seed ’im one day when he’d been watchin’ us cut wheat an’
got drowsy an’ fell asleep in de shade.
“Dey tuck ’im off to bury ’im, an’ I went back to work; but I couldn’t
do it jestice, an’ kept drappin’ de dishes an’ pans, I was so outdone
thinkin’ ’bout de folks at home. Den de captain pass me an’ say: ‘Look
heer, what you snifflin’ ’bout? Did you know dis young man?’
“An’ when I told ’im yesser, dat captain got mighty serious in de face
an’ yell out to de rest um, ‘Why didn’t you-all had dis man testify?’
“But nobody wouldn’t answer. Den de captain set down nigh me an’ I could
see his hands was tremblin’ powerful. He talked low like he was sorter
ashamed. An’ he ax me: ‘Who is de young man? Whar do he live?’
“I told ’im Marse Eddie was my young Marster an’ at he was s’rounded in
de mountains when he was tryin’ to git home on his furlough, wid his so’
arm, an’ sick an’ hungry.
“Well, suh, I hain’t never had too much use fur Yankees, but dat one’s
face cert’ney did look troubled.
“‘Gawd furgive us,’ he say, dat’s what he said, ‘and we-all thought he
was lyin’ to git free;’ an’ he most stagger as he walked off. Den I heer
’im order um not to bury Marse Eddie yit but to wait. Dey fixed ’im as
nice as dey kin on a litter an’ put a new gray blanket on ’im an’ send
’im off to we-all’s place, kase I reckon dey lowed dey had done all de
damage dey kin an’ thought it would be a kindness to old Miss to bury ’er
own child.
“After dey done gone, I heer de captain say: ‘Dis is a mistaken duty. I’d
ruther myse’f lie on dat litter. Heaven is gwine to curse dis bloodshed,
Lieutenant,’ he say to a spry young man. ‘Lieutenant, you know’ what
we-all shot dat po’ boy fur? We shot ’im kase he come home wounded to
see his fair-faced sister back on dat plantation, an’ his old bedridden
mother. Lieutenant, let dat be a lesson to you. Dat letter in his pocket
wasn’t no spy-letter. It was des to his pa back in de army of de Souf
tellin’ ’im he was nigh his home. When he writ he was tryin’ to git thoo
de lines it wasn’t to spy. Yo’ maw’s a-livin’, ain’t she, Lieutenant?’ De
young man nodded his haid, an’ den de captain went on agi’n: ‘Well, des
put yo’se’f in dis young man’s place an’ den you gwine see how yo’ maw ud
feel to had you sent home dat away.’
“Wid all de ’sturbance, it seemed like dey done furget dat I ort to be at
home wid my white folks at sech a’ awful time, an’ dey kep’ me till long
atter dinner. Den who shall come right in de camp ’cep’ young Miss? I
never in all my days seed sech a look as was in her face. Seemed like she
was in ’er sleep, ur out’n ’er mind, ur suppin another. It looked like
all de officers in de camp wanted to hide out, but de captain was man
enough to face ’er an’ went right up to whar she was.
“‘I come to see de spot whar de young Confederate died dis mawnin’, if
you please,’ she said, as cool as I ever seed young Miss in my life,
dough ’er eyes was flashin’ like diamonds in de sun.
“‘Young lady,’ de captain say, mighty white in de face, ‘dis is a po’
time to ’spress regrets, but Gawd knows dis is a gre’t mistake. I’d
ruther be daid myse’f. I pray Gawd to furgive us. We acted too quick. De
evidence showed dat yo’ brother was a spy, an’ we never knowed no better
till it was all over.’
“‘I did not come to discuss his death,’ young Miss said mighty haughty.
‘I des want to see de spot whar he fell. We-all is grateful fer his
remains—sometimes it ain’t done, I believe.’
“‘Young Miss,’ I said to ’er, ‘come, le’s go back home; dey will let me
go wid you.’
“Den she looked at me fur de fus time. ‘Was you heer, Ham?’ she say; ‘den
you’ll do; you kin show me ’dout troublin’ dese gentlemen. Show me whar
my brurr fell, an’ den I’ll go back to mother. I was des afraid de army
would march off an’ I never would know de exact spot whar de outrage
happened.’
[Illustration:
“When she passed ’im she tuck out a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat.”
]
“Den I led ’er to’des de sweetgum an’ p’int it out. She des took one look
at it, an’ den she put ’er han’ over ’er face an’ said in a awful low
voice: ‘Le’s go quick, Ham,’ an’ I knowed she was afeerd she’d break down
’fo’ dem low-lived soldiers, an’ dat she’d druther be daid ’an to do it.
All de way home she ain’t open ’er lips.
“Well, to close my tale, when old Marster come home after de war was over
ol’ Miss was daid. It seems a long time ago. Young Miss an’ ’er pa went
to Richmond to live, whar he had a lill property dat ’scaped de Yankee’s
hands. She turned out to be a gre’t lady an’ had big men—governors an’
congressmen runnin’ atter her to git ’er to marry um. De funniest thing
of all was de way dat Yankee captain did after de war was over; I heer
some o’ my white folks say he writ two dozen letters to young Miss. He
told ’er in um dat she was the onliest woman he ever laid eyes on dat
completely tuck his heart and he say ’twas all kase she had so much pride
and fine sperit. He begged ’er to let by-gones be by-gones an’ let ’im
come down to Richmond an’ ’splain, but she didn’t so much as answer de
letters an’ got so she sent um back to ’im dout openin’ um. Dey say he
managed to meet ’er at a big dinner somebody give up in Richmond an’
was introduced to ’er. Of co’se, young Miss was too much of a lady to
’suit ’im when dey bofe visitin’ de same house, so she bowed to ’im an’
’changed a few words, but she left de house an’ called her carriage.
Dat’s what my white folks done tole me; I dunno, but it cert’ney was like
young Miss. Dey say dat treatment didn’t faze dat captain, he was so
dead bent on gittin’ ’er fur his wife; so one day, some time atter dat,
he follered ’er to a big chu’ch in Richmond, whar she went to worship.
Dey say it had high steps to it, an’ when she come out’n de do’ she seed
’im at de foot o’ de steps waitin’ fur ’er, wid his hat helt out in his
hand. Well, suh, what you reckon young Miss did? She had her purse in ’er
hand wid some small change in it, an’ when she passed ’im she tuck out
a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat widout so much as lookin’ at ’im,
des as ef he was a begger. Dey say dat settled ’im. He went off an’ never
bothered ’er again.
“Did she marry? Yes, suh, she did, fer she had pickin’ choice o’ de whole
country, Norf an’ Souf. She married a big rich man in Richmond, an’ she’s
got some o’ de likeliest childern in de world. Her pa is dar doin’ well,
too; dey send me money every now an’ den an’ wish me well. Dey is folks
right, suh, an’ ef you ever run across um you’ll know I’m tellin’ you de
trufe.”