"Well, Lorency, Mr. Ware says you have made me a present since I was here?"
"Yah! yah! Marse Desmit, dat I hab! Jes' de finest little nigger boy yer ebber sot eyes on. Jes' you look at him now," she continued, holding up her brighteyed pickaninny. "Ebber you see de beat ub dat? Reg'lar ten pound, an' wuff two hundred dollars dis bressed minnit."
"Is that it, Lorency?" said Desmit, pointing to the child. "Who ever saw such a thunder-cloud?"
There was a boisterous laugh at the master's joke from the assembled crowd. Nothing abashed, the good-natured mother replied, with ready wit,
"Dat so, Marse Kunnel. He's brack, he is. None ob yer bleached out yaller sort of coffee-cullud nigger 'bout him. De rale ole giniwine kind, dat a coal make a white mark on. Yah I yah! what yer gwine ter name him, Mahs'r? Gib him a good name, now, none o' yer common mean ones, but jes' der bes' one yer got in yer book;" for Colonel Desmit was writing in a heavy clasped book which rested on a light stand beside him.
"What is it, Mahs'r?"
"Nimbus," replied the master.
"Wh—what?" asked the mother. "Say dat agin', won't yer, Mahs'r?"
"Nimbus—Nimbus," repeated Desmit.
"Wal, I swan ter gracious!" exclaimed the mother. "Ef dat don't beat! H'yer! little—what's yer name? Jes' ax yer Mahs'r fer a silver dollar ter pay yer fer hevin' ter tote dat er name 'roun' ez long ez yer lives."