Uncle Milton is an inheritance from my great-aunts and Cedarhurst, where he had the finest flowers and the most flourishing vegetable garden in the country. He is a lean old Negro, tall, and straight as a pine. His features are finely cut; and with his gray hair, long gray moustache, regular features, and skin like polished bronze, he makes a distinguished appearance, even in his old blue jeans. He is a real lover of the outdoor world, and the earth and the plants know it. He bends over the flower-beds lovingly, with eyes that see, not dirt, but all dirt’s possibilities of beauty and life. There is never a plant set carelessly nor a seed that falls by chance. No wonder all he touches grows!
That he went to town with Great-aunt Letitia, and stayed there afterward with me, spoke eloquently of the strength of affection between us. But after my great-aunt’s death he did not accept the situation without constant protests, and the advice which my youth and ignorance demanded.
“You ain’t got no mo’ business in de city dan I is, Miss Lil,” he said spring after spring, as I sat on the grass by the flower-beds and watched his fork go in and out like clock-work, leaving behind it long rows of fresh-turned earth. “You done los’ all dem roses you had in yo’ face at home. Ef Miss Ferginny done lived she wouldn’ put up wid dis foolishness not er minute.”
“But the city is more convenient for Mr. Bird,” I would explain. “Some day when he is rich enough he expects to give up business, and then we will go back.”
“He’ll be givin’ up his wife fus’ news you know,” growled the old man, stopping to thin the thick border of violets. “An’ he’ll be goin’ to bury you dar by Miss Ferginny and Miss ’Titia befo’ he goes retirin’ from business ef he don’ look out. We-all got er plenty ter live on now—you got er plenty widout his’n; en ef you ain’t, I kin make er plenty outen dat groun’. Hit’s de riches’ lan’ in Davis’son county. I made hit pay befo’, en I kin do hit agin, stidder was’in’ it on po’ white-trash renters like you all do. But I ’clare to gracious, Miss Lil, ef you-all don’ go, I will. I been mixin’ up wid town niggers till I’m plumb wo’ out wid ’em. Dis is de las’ spring Milton’ll fix yo’ flowers in dis mizzable little cramped-up lot.”
He had said this so often that I regarded it as one of Nature’s regular spring processes; and beyond a sudden deeper stirring of my constant homesickness, his threats passed unnoticed. But one February morning he came out and stood by my cot under the trees with a face at once elated and downcast.
“Are you going to begin the spring work today?” I asked in delight.
He looked embarrassed.
“Hit’s sorter early to rake dem leaves offen de beds yit,” he said. Then he hesitated. “I ’spec I ain’t gwinter be able ter do de wuk no mo’.”
“Are you sick?” I asked anxiously. Then I saw the new look in his face, and gasped. “You’re going to the country!” I cried.