Little Methuselah called after her but she did not pause. She meant to get her own share from that distant melon-patch, and her maternal ears were deaf to his outcries.
Sharing the common feeling of repose and safety which had fallen upon all the company when the Water Lily had been tied up for the night, Metty had felt it a fine time to don his livery and show off his finery before the white folks. Clad in its loose misfit, but proud as ever, he clung to the stern-rail of the Pad and gazed after his departing parent.
What had happened? Why were all those people running away so fast? Was another frightful tempest coming?
“Mammy! Mam-my! Lemme! Lemme come! Mammy, Mammy, wait—I’se com——”
A point on the water side of the Pad commanded a better view of the fleeing figures, climbing the gentle rise of ground beyond. Thither the little fellow rushed; gave one glance downward into the water and another upon his gorgeous attire; then upward and onward where a fold of scarlet calico fluttered like a signal; shut his great eyes, and leaped.
Alas! The fat little legs couldn’t compass that space! and Methuselah Bonaparte Washington Brown sank beneath the waves his own impact had created.