Felo placed a chair for him near the fire; and after taking his tattered hat and walking stick and putting them on the bench across the room, Susan handed him a cup of coffee, giving him kindly greeting:
“Unc’ Foteen, we sho please’ to see you. You ain’ bin hyuh for a long time. But look like evvything alright wid you; an’ you got yo’ good strank yet.”
“Yas, Sis’ Susan,” he replied thoughtfully, nodding his impressive white head. “Ole Foteen still hyuh ’munks de livin’ to wait on de fam’ly an’ give thanks in de kingdom. W’en I puts my right foot down, I say: Thank Gawd. An’ w’en I takes my lef’ foot up, I say: Praise de Lawd.”
“A-men.” Came the fervent response from Tom.
“Drink yo’ coffee, Unc’ Foteen; an’ lemme fix you a plate o’ gumbo, an’ you kin eat ’fo de fire to yo’ sattafaction,” said Susan, uncovering the fragrant pot.
Uncle Foteen had become a legend in the village, as simple country people often do. Everybody knew of his connection with the Guillaume family; and his story of loyalty and faithful servitude was told again and again by the new generation of colored people; with admiration by some, with undue censure by others. For many years before the Civil War, Uncle Foteen’s genial usefulness in the Guillaume household resembled that of Coventry Patmore’s “Briggs,” who was
“Factotum, butler, footman, groom,
Who helped the gardener, fed the pigs,