"Again, Honey, again,” in a voice of actual command, so reluctant was Joe to have his keen enjoyment for one moment interrupted, and Brevet obeyed, keeping the air perfectly and singing with all his heart, too, as though himself a veritable little pickaninny, dwelling upon the many happy memories of babyhood in a cotton-field.
“I clar to yo’, Honey,” said Joe, his voice trembling with delight, “I can just see dat little baby. Seems ter me I neber done hear anythin’ so pretty, anythin’ dat fit each other like dat song an’ words. Whar eber did yo’ Tarn it, Honey?”
“Uncle Harry taught it to me, Joe.”
“Are der any more verses, Honey?”
“There’s one more, Joe, but Uncle Harry says it’s so ordinary it doesn’t belong with the first verse at all.”
“Well now, dat’s a pity,” said Joe, very regretfully, “but yo’ Uncle Harry he do beat all for gettin’ hol’ of sweet, catchin’ music an’ I kin des tell yo’, Honey, you done mus’ sing dat song to yo’ ole Cap’n eb’ry time we fin’ ourselves togedder fur half a shake of a lamb’s tail. Gib us yo’ han’ on it, Honey, dat you will.”
Brevet put his brown hand in Joe’s black one, his own face beaming with the pleasure he had given, and so the two boon companions jogged on, until, high on a hill before them, the pillars of a fine old house came into view, and a few moments later the donkey-cart drew up at a little cabin, just in the rear of the fine old house, a cabin that had been Joe’s home ever since he was as little a fellow as Brevet there beside him.