Yas’m, but he will; dey ain’t no hope.
It is impossible to say that, Eliza; the best doctors are often mistaken. But even if they do know a case to be hopeless, they cannot predict the exact time of a man’s death with such a certainty that the funeral can be arranged so long beforehand.
Yas’m, with calm assurance; but he will be buried nex’ Sunday, for all dat, ’cause he’s gwin’ to be hung on Friday.
When General John Corson Smith was lieutenant governor of Illinois, one of the colored janitors of the state house at Springfield came into his office one morning and related the following incident, which he said occurred the previous evening in the negro lodge of which he was a member—
The ballot box had been passed and the worshipful master asked—How is the ballot in the south, Brother Junior Warden? Clar in the south, worshipful. How is the ballot in the west, Brother Senior Warden? Clar in the west, worshipful. The W. M. then inspected the box and said—And clar in the east. I therefore declar Mr. Josephus Johnson duly elected to take the degrees in this lodge. Up jumped a big coon, as black as the ace of spades, and cried, That’s a ’fernal lie,’ worshipful master. I put in four black balls myself.
A negro boy walked into a drug store and asked permission to use the telephone. Then the following conversation took place—
Is that you, Mistah Jones?