“Po’ Runt, he don’t git much ’tenshun! Dey never thought enough uv ’im to name ’im, an’ de foks, seein’ how little he wuz, called ’im ‘Runt’ an’ ‘Runt’ he is. Ef anybudy wanted him dey coul’ steal ’im an’ nobudy woul’ make much fuss ’bout it. Ef it wuz slavry time ergin, an’ Ole Brickhouse Jim wuz livin’, he’d git ’im ’fo’ Sadday night. Mary tote’s ’im to de fiel’ in de mornin’ an’ puts ’im down in de shade uv er tree an’ lets ’im stay dere.”
This same little negro, four years old, bow-legged, flat-nosed, onery-looking and dirty, clad in a single garment, which was torn, and without buttons to hold it in place, was at that very moment rambling about in the weeds in the orchard, far from his mother, who, with a dozen other hands, were chopping cotton. If a dog or a calf or anything else came along and toppled him over he cried until he was exhausted, fell asleep and waked up refreshed. No one seemed to love or care for him; he weeded his own row.
Taking pity on him, on various and sundry occasions, Miss Jule had sent Charlie with buttered biscuits or pieces of pie to the four-year-old. Although Runt was afraid of Charlie, who often slipped up behind him, turned his little shirt over his head and ran, he was thankful for the hand-outs, without knowing just where they came from. If he saw the white boy coming he wanted to hide, but was afraid to lest he miss a sweet morsel for his tongue.
“Look, Miss Jule, don’t it beat all how boys do? See Charlie teasing dat po’ little nigger,” old Matt would say.
“Charlie! Charlie! You little scamp, you! Quit worrying that child!” would follow, and the youngster would laugh and run, leaving Runt to think it over.
“Shhoo, shhoo, shhoo!
“There’s that old rooster again,” said Mrs. Parks, as she turned and started for the front porch again.
“We don’t want any company to-day.”
“Miss Jule, don’t you speck you’d better spruce up er little, so ef de preacher do come you’ll be ready fur ’im?”