“For two years after my marriage my husband and I lived on the plantation, he managing the estate until he was called to Washington on business, and, in returning, the train was thrown down an embankment, and he was among the killed.
“Soon after that my baby was born, and before he was six months old my mistress died suddenly, when it was found that the estate was insolvent, and everything must be sold to pay the debts; and I and my baby, with the other goods and chattels, were put up for sale. Mr. Martin, the speculator, bought me, thinking I would bring a fancy price; but my heart was broken, and I grieved until my health gave way, so that nobody ever wanted me, until your kind-hearted master bought me to give me a home to die in. But oh, Uncle Bob,” she continued, bursting into tears, “to think my boy, my baby, must be a slave! His father’s relatives are poor. He had only a widowed mother and two sisters. They are not able to buy my child, and he must be raised in ignorance, to do another’s bidding all his life, my poor little baby! His dear father hated slavery, and it seems so hard that his son must be a slave!”
“Now don’t yer take on like dat, er makin’ uv yerse’f sick,” said Uncle Bob; “I know wat I gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up; hit’s true, I’m brack, but den my min’ hit’s made up. Now you go on back ter de house, outn dis damp a’r, an’ tuck cyar er yerse’f, an’ don’t yer be er frettin’, nuther, caze my marster, he’s de bes’ man dey is; an’ den, ’sides dat, my min’ hit’s made up. Hyear, honey,” addressing the child, “take deze hyear white-oak splits an’ go’n make yer er baskit ’long o’ yer ma.”
Ann and her baby returned to the house, but Uncle Snake-bit Rob, long after the sun went down, still sat on his little bench in front of his shop, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands; and when it grew quite dark he rose, and put away his splits and his baskets, saying to himself,
“Well, I know wat I’m gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up.”
CHAPTER VIII
UNCLE BOB’S PROPOSITION
The night after Ann’s interview with Uncle Bob, Major Waldron was sitting in his library looking over some papers, when some one knocked at the door, and, in response to his hearty “Come in,” Uncle Snake-bit Bob entered.
“Ebenin’ ter yer, marster,” said the old man, scraping his foot and bowing his head.
“How are you, Uncle Bob?” responded his master.
“I’m jes po’ly, thank God,” replied Uncle Bob, in the answer invariably given by Southern slaves to the query “How are you?” No matter if they were fat as seals, and had never had a day’s sickness in their lives, the answer was always the same—“I’m po’ly, thank God.”