“I’se done knowed dat dis ’ole black man aint gwine ter be he’ar many mo’ summers at mo’s. I’m gettin’ mighty feeble, Massa. My jints is growin’ stif’, an’ i’se all weighted down wid years. Here lately i’se bin wantin’ to kno’ mo’ ’bout dat odder worl’ away off up yander som’ers. Atter I gits da school-house swept out Sunday mornin’s, I’se bin stayin’ an’ a hearin’ Miss Emeline a tellin’ ’bout it to da chil’ens. I’se bin longin’ to ax yo’ ’bout it, den I’ll be satisfied. Is dar any good place fo’ an ole black man like me away off in dat country?” The feeble old man lifted his thin eyes and looked into Paul Waffington’s face for an answer with all the yearning of his soul.
“Yes, there is, Uncle Lazarus,” came the answer, in low, gentle tones.
“De good Lawd be praised. I’se ready to die,” he shouted, turning his black face to the starry heavens in humble thanksgiving.
It was dark now, and the stars came out and looked as bright as gold. Paul Waffington looked up at the peaks of the mighty Snake and at the myriad of stars beyond, and was grateful for all. Near by the gate he stopped and reverently removed his hat as he looked upon a grave whose turf was now growing old. For a full minute he stood, when the silence was broken by the black man.
“Under dat moun’, Massa Waffington, res’ de body of de bes’ woman, de bes’ mudder, dat eber lived in dis worl’. Many is de time dat dis ole nigger man has waded thro’ de snow deeper den my knees an’ gone an’ fixed firewood fo’ her an’ dat little angel Genie to keep warm by, when Joe wa’ wild an’ bad. Hundreds ob dark winter nights I’se rocked an’ sung to dat little baby Genie, sung to her ’bout bettar times whin she’d be a woman.” Then he went on half aloud: “But dem bettar times fo’ dat little body aint nebbar come yit. Aye, Massa, bes’ heart dat ebber beat lays der asleep under dem daisies.”
They walked out through the wicker gate together. Each was engaged with his thoughts.
“If I can do anything to make life easier for Gena Filson, I am going to do it, Uncle Lazarus. I know that Jason Dillenburger is mistreating his adopted daughter. I know, too, that to cross Jase Dillenburger’s path means death perhaps. But both Gena and Jase invited me to come to see them when I returned to Blood Camp, therefore, I have decided to go up tonight and pay my respects to Jason Dillenburger and his adopted daughter. Jase has naught against me, and I believe that he will truly be glad to see me. Good-night, Uncle Lazarus,” he called, as he turned from the gate.
“Jus’ one mo’ question from dis ole black man fo’ yo’ go, Massa, jus’ one mo’.”
“Why, Uncle, two of them if you wish,” came the good-natured reply.
“My mind has been pesterin’ me a heap o’ late ’bout a question. I—I want to ax yo’. Where is de modder ob dat little Genie tonight? Is she at res’?”