FORTY ACRES AND A MULE
“What about your husband and the ‘forty acres and the mule,’ Aunt Matt?” asked the ruddy-faced young man who had just arrived from the city to visit his father and mother at the old home place on the farm.
“It’s fine weather, Mister Eddie, an’ de cotton an’ de corn is des growin’ a inch or two ever’ night,” said Matt Tite, a tall, thin-faced negress of the ante-bellum type, smiling.
“Don’t evade the question, Matt; tell these boys about Tite and the carpet-baggers,” insisted the visitor. “Out with it, I want to hear the story again.”
“Chile, ain’t you never gwine to fergit dat? I walked eight miles to git here to see you, but ef I’d er knowed dat you wuz gwine to pester me ’bout Tite an’ de Ku Kluxes I sho’ wouldn’t a come.
“I’s done fergit de perticlers uv dat story.”
“You know enough to make it interesting; tell it.”
“Tite’s done fergit de forty acres an’ de mule, an’ ef I des wanter have er fight, let me mention it in his presence.
“You know Tite wuz one uv Marse John Robinson’s niggers ’fo’ s’render. Marse John wuz a powerful big man in dem times ef he is po’ now. He had lots uv lan’ an’ niggers, an’ wuz mighty good to his slaves. Tite wuz a good nigger, an’ Marse John làked him, an’ arter de war he stay on at de ole place an’ seem satisfied till dem cearpet-baggers (dat’s what de white folks called dem) fust come sneakin’ around, puttin’ de devil in de niggers’ haid, promisin’ all kinds uv things, an’ given dem nuthin’ but trouble.