He come in as polite as ever, and accosted us all in a very genteel way. He had brought Maggie a great bunch of orchids, and said “the Madam had sent them to her with her compliments.”
He meant his wife—he most always called her so.
The posys he brought wuz very rare. They grow on air mostly, and only have the very slightest soil to connect ’em with the earth.
And from all accounts (I thought to myself) that wuz the way that his angel of a wife lived herself. Almost all of the roots of her sweet nater wuz in heaven. Jest enough connection with this world so all could see the brightness and bloom and size of the divine flower of holiness that sprung up out of her lone, unhappy life.
Maggie took the flowers and thanked him, and told him to tell Mrs. Seybert how much she prized her kind thoughtfulness, and how sorry she wuz to hear of her continued ill health.
That woman, from all I hear, hain’t long for this world.
Wall, they all passed the time of day in politeness and general conversation, till—for my life I can’t hardly tell how it begun—but I believe Col. Seybert had had some trouble with his colored help—but anyway and tenny rate, Col. Seybert launched out into a perfect tirade of abuse of the black race.
He didn’t notice Genieve a settin’ there no more’n a ice-cold avalanche would stay its course for a idlewiss blossom—no; it would crunch right along down and crush the blossom without any pity or compunction.
Good land! you don’t look for pity, or consideration, or any other of the soft, warm-souled graces in a avalanche of snow and ice, or the nater of a bad man.
But I jest think my eyes of Genieve, and so duz Maggie and all on us, and we every one on us tried to turn the conversation into more peaceful channels.