“Come heah, sah!”
Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood.
“George Washin’ton,” she said, “you sartainly is de laziest nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s’pose you was a-comin’ up dat hill? You don’ no? I don’ nether; ’twas so long I los’ all count. You’ll bring yore mudder’s gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin’ and slowness, see if you don’. Heah I is waitin’ and a’waitin’ on you for to go down to ole Mass’ Cunningham’s wid dose tings. Take ’em to de young city man boardin’ dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin’ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I’ll break yore bones, chile, when you comes home. You heah dat?”
George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when—
There was only one muddy place on George Washington’s route to town; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him, but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled.
He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the “city man” than his mother; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and trudged on.
The young folks at “Mass’ Cunningham’s” sent him to the boarder’s room, with many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the basket to put them away.
He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket.
“Here, George,” he said, “take these back to your mother to wash, and don’t you dare, you little vagabond! ever bring such looking things to me again.”
Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the same George.