“Nelson, hey?” said the patriarch. “There used to be some Nelsons out in the Kent neighborhood. Don’t s’pose you ever heerd of them.”
“I’ve been hearing of them all my life,” said the young man. “I come from New York, but my father’s name was Henry Nelson and he was born out near Kent in this county.”
“Then you must a-been a grandson of the late Ezra Nelson,” said the aged Vermonter. His manner perceptibly had warmed; indeed, by now it was almost cordial.
“Yes, sir,” said the youth. “Ezra Nelson was my grandfather.”
“Dew tell, now!” said the patriarch. “So you’re a son of Henry Nelson and a grandson of Ezra Nelson? Well, in that case it may rain.”
§ 146 Without Professional Assistance
A lady who lives on a plantation in the southern part of Alabama went up to Birmingham on a visit. Upon her return an old negro man who occasionally did odd jobs for her dropped by to welcome her home and to tell her the news of the neighborhood.
“Whilst you wuz gone Aunt Mallie died,” he said. Aunt Mallie was a poor old black woman who lived in a tumbledown cabin half a mile away.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said the white lady sympathetically. “How long was she sick?”
“Jes’ three or fo’ days,” he said.