Genieve’s dark, beautiful eyes jest brightened and glowed as I talked; she fairly hung onto my words, as I could see.
“But,” sez Col. Seybert, “they don’t want to go.”
Thomas J. leaned back in his chair in deep enjoyment of his Ma’s talk, as I could see plain; and he says to Col. Seybert:
“How do you know they don’t want to go?”
“SET DOWN IN OUR SWAMP.”
“Because I do know it,” sez he. “They say they are not Africans now, but Americans; they have a right here; they have just as good right here now as we have.”
“Wall, I don’t dispute that idee,” sez I.
“I have got a right to go and set down in our swamp and set there; but I should be dretful apt to get all covered with mud and mire, I couldn’t see nuthin’ but dirt and slosh; the bad, nasty air would make me deathly sick, to say nuthin’ of my bein’ bit to death by muskeeters and run over by snakes and toads, etc.