“We hope ter meet you in heaven, whar we'll
Part no mo',
Whar we'll part no mo';
Gawd A'moughty bless you twel we
Me—et a—gin.”
“Twel we meet agin,” chirped the little girls, tripping into the chorus.
Then, with a last rumble, the wagon went by, and Zeke came trotting back and straddled the stone wall, where he sat looking down upon the loose poppies that fringed the yellowed edge of the wheat.
“Dey's gwine way-way f'om hyer, Marse Champe,” he said dreamily. “Dey's gwine right spang over dar whar de sun done come f'om.”
“Colonel Minor bought 'em,” Champe explained, sliding from the wall, “and he bought Dolly dirt cheap—I heard Uncle say so—” With a grin he looked up at the small black figure perched upon the crumbling stones. “You'd better look out how you steal any more of my fishing lines, or I'll sell you,” he threatened.
“Gawd er live! I ain' stole one on 'em sence las' mont',” protested Zeke, as he turned a somersault into the road, “en dat warn' stealin' 'case hit warn' wu'th it,” he added, rising to his feet and staring wistfully after the wagon as it vanished in a sunny cloud of dust.
Over the broad meadows, filled with scattered wild flowers, the sound of the chant still floated, with a shrill and troubled sweetness, upon the wind. As he listened the little negro broke into a jubilant refrain, beating his naked feet in the dust:—
“Gawd A'moughty bless you twel we
Me—et a—gin.”
Then he looked slyly up at his young master.
“I 'low dar's one thing you cyarn do, Marse Champe.”