He was willful and wrongheaded from the first. He never, even as a child, acknowledged any authority but his own sweet will. He could simulate obedience whenever it suited his purpose, but only one person in the world had any real influence over him—a negro named Balaam. The day Berrien Cozart was born, his proud and happy father called to a likely negro lad who was playing about in the yard—the day was Sunday—and said:—
“How old are you?”
“I dunno ’zackly, marster, but ole Aunt Emmeline she know.”
“Do you do any work?”
“Yes, suh; I totes water, an’ I drives de cows ter de pastur’, an’ I keeps off de calfs, an’ I runs de chickens out ’n de gyardin.”
The sprightly and intelligent appearance of the lad evidently made a favorable impression on the master, for he beckoned to him and said:—
“Come in here; I want to show you something.”
The negro dropped his hat on the ground and followed Mr. Cozart, who led the way to the darkened room where Berrien, the baby, was having his first experience with existence. He lay on the nurse’s lap, with blinking eyes and red and wrinkled face, trying to find his mouth with his fists. The nurse, black as she was, was officious, and when she saw the negro boy she exclaimed:—
“Balaam, w’at you doin’ in yere? Take yo’se’f right out! Dis ain’t no place fer you.”