“De horses an’ de houns, too, dey’re all gone.
“I guess I ain’t here fur long, but I sho’ woul’ lak to see ole Marster, an’ Miss Lizzie, an’ Sam, an’ Cindy, an’ Mollie, de hosses, an’ Joe, Jerry, Loud, Dinah, Sing, an’ Hannah, de dogs.”
The old darkey was on his death bed. He spoke in a weak but charming voice. His mind was wandering, returning to the past. He had been his old master’s hunting companion, his whipper-in, and their black and tan hounds were famous for speed, casting ahead at a loss and hard driving. They could catch a red fox or make him take to the earth.
Old Ben was a hunter from his heart. He loved the running dog, the fast horse and the chase. The pleasant days of years long since passed were coming back to him. He longed for one more run with the old Morrow hounds. Those who watched by the death bed in the little cabin, waiting for the final summons, listened to Ben’s stories of the past. Dr. Smith had telegraphed for Dr. James Morrow, the last of his family, and told him that the old man wanted to see him and say good-bye. Loyal to the last the young master was hurrying from the North to the old home place to be present when the faithful servant departed this life. He had asked Dr. Smith to make the last hours as comfortable as possible and to gratify Uncle Ben’s every wish.
It was almost midnight that October day; the moon was shining gloriously, the ground damp from recent rain and the weather fine for a fox hunt. The scenting conditions were well-nigh perfect. Dr. Morrow had just arrived, but old Ben did not know him.
“Yes, sir, Marse Wash, all’s ready fur de hunt,” said the negro in his delirium.
“Ever thing’s right an’ ole Hannah’s been clawin’ at my do’ fur de las’ hour. She’s mighty anxious to try dat ole Stinson fiel’ fox dis evnin’. De horses is done saddled an’ nothin’ to do but start.
“Des listen at Sing an’ Jerry, dey’s powful anxious to go!”
It was pathetic to hear the old fellow talking to his master who had been dead many years, but he seemed happy. There was no way to stop him if those there should have desired to do so.
“Blow yo’ horn, boss, an’ let Marse Sam Stitt jine us ef he will. Dat’ll do, I hear ’im. He’s comin’.”