“Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?” asked Major Waldron. “The little negroes been bothering your splits again?”
“Dey’s all de time at dat, marster, an’ dey gwine git hu’t, mun, ef dey fool long o’ me; but den dat ain’t wat I come fur dis time. I come fur ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de time.”
“There’s plenty of time, Uncle Bob; take a seat, then, if we are to have a talk;” and Major Waldron lit his cigar, and leaned back, while Uncle Bob seated himself on a low chair, and said:
“Marster, I come ter ax yer wat’ll yer take fur dat little boy yer bought fum de specerlaters?”
“Ann’s little boy?” asked his master; “why, I would not sell him at all. I only bought him because his mother was dying of exposure and fatigue, and I wanted to relieve her mind of anxiety on his account, I would certainly never sell her child away from her,”
“Yes, sar, dat’s so,” replied the old man; “but den my min’, hit’s made up. I’ve laid me up er little money fum time ter time, wen I’d be er doct’in uv hosses an’ mules an’ men’-in’ cheers, an’ all sich ez dat; de folks dey pays me lib’ul; an’, let erlone dat, I’m done mighty well wid my taters an’ goobers, er sellin’ uv ’em ter de steamboat han’s, wat takes ’em ter de town, an’ ’sposes uv ’em. So I’m got er right smart chance uv money laid up, sar; an’ now I wants ter buy me er nigger, same ez white folks, fur ter wait on me an’ bresh my coat an’ drive my kerridge; an’ I ’lowed ef yer’d sell de little white nigger, I’d buy ’im,” and Uncle Bob chuckled and laughed.
“Why, Bob, I believe you are crazy,” said his master, “or drunk.”
“I ain’t neder one, marster; but den I’m er jokin’ too much, mo’n de ’lenity uv de cazhun inquires, an’ now I’ll splain de facks, sar.”
And Uncle Rob related Ann’s story to his master, and wound up by saying:
“An’ now, marster, my min’, hit’s made up. I wants ter buy de little chap, an’ give ’im ter his mammy, de one wat God give ’im to. Hit’ll go mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top er years er layin’ uv it up, an’ hit’s er mighty, cumfut ter me er countin’ an’ er jinglin’ uv it; but hit ain’t doin’ nobody no good er buried in de groun’, an’ I don’t special need it myse’f, caze you gives me my cloes, an’ my shoes, an’ my eatin’s, an’ my backer, an’ my wisky, an’ I ain’t got no cazhun fur ter spen’ it; an’ let erlone dat, I can’t stay hyear fureber, er countin’ an’ er jinglin’ dat money, wen de angel soun’ dat horn, de ole nigger he’s got ter go; he’s boun’ fur ter be dar! de money can’t hol’ ’im! De Lord, he ain’t gwine ter say, ’Scuze dat nigger, caze he got money piled up; lef ’im erlone, fur ter count dat gol’ an’ silver.’ No, sar! But, marster, maybe in de jedgmun’ day, wen Ole Bob is er stan’in’ fo’ de Lord wid his knees er trim’lin’, an’ de angel fotches out dat book er hisn, and’ de Lord tell ’im fur ter read wat he writ gins ’im, an’ de angel he ’gin ter read how de ole nigger drunk too much wisky, how he stoled watermillions in de night, how he cussed, how he axed too much fur doct’in’ uv hosses, an’ wen he wuz men’in’ cheers, how he wouldn’t men’ ’em strong, so’s he’d git ter men’ ’em ergin some time; an’ den’ wen he read all dat an’ shet de book, maybe de Lord he’ll say, ‘Well, he’s er pow’ful sinful nigger, but den he tuck his money, he did, an’ buy’d de little baby fur ter give ’im ter his mammy, an’ I sha’n’t be too hard on’ im.