Pete. Hold quiet, you trash o' niggers! tink anybody wants you to cry? Who's you to set up screching?—be quiet! But dis ain't all. Now, my culled brethren, gird up your lines, and listen—hold on yer bref—it's a comin. We tought dat de niggers would belong to de ole missus, and if she lost Terrebonne, we must live dere allers, and we would hire out, and bring our wages to ole Missus Peyton.
Omnes. Ya! ya! Well—
Pete. Hush! I tell ye, 't'ain't so—we can't do it—we've got to be sold—
Omnes. Sold!
Pete. Will you hush? she will har you. Yes! I listen dar jess now—dar was ole lady cryin'—Mas'r George—ah! you seen dem big tears in his eyes. O, Mas'r Scudder, he didn't cry zackly; both ob his eyes and cheek look like de bad Bayou in low season—so dry dat I cry for him. [Raising his voice.] Den say de missus, "'Tain't for de land I keer, but for dem poor niggars—dey'll be sold—dat wot stagger me." "No," say Mas'r George, "I'd rather sell myself fuss; but dey shan't suffer, nohow,—I see 'em dam fuss."
Omnes. O, bless um! Bless Mas'r George.
Pete. Hole yer tongues. Yes, for you, for me, for dem little ones, dem folks cried. Now, den, if Grace dere wid her chil'n were all sold, she'll begin screechin' like a cat. She didn't mind how kind old judge was to her; and Solon, too, he'll holler, and break de ole lady's heart.
Grace. No, Pete; no, I won't. I'll bear it.
Pete. I don't tink you will any more, but dis here will; 'cause de family spile Dido, dey has. She nebber was 'worth much 'a dat nigger.
Dido. How dar you say dat, you black nigger, you? I fetch as much as any odder cook in Louisiana.