“‘Put the pillar under my head. Dat is right,’ said she; ‘tank you, Sorrow.’
“Oh, Massa, how different she was from abulitinists to Boston. She always said Tankee, for ebery ting. Now ablutinists say, ‘Hand me dat piller, you darned rascal, and den make yourself skase, you is as black as de debbil’s hind leg.’ And den she say—
“‘Trow dat scarf over my ankles, to keep de bominable flies off. Tankee, Sorrow; you is far more handier dan Aunt Dolly is. Dat are niggar is so rumbustious, she jerks my close so, sometimes I tink in my soul she will pull ’em off.’ Den she shut her eye, and she gabe a cold shiver all ober.
“‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘I am goin’ to take a long, bery long journey, to de far off counteree.’
“‘Oh dear me! Missus,’ says I; ‘Oh Lord; Missus, you ain’t a goin’ to die, is you?’ and I fell down on my knees, and kissed her hand, and said, ‘Oh, Missus; don’t die, please Missus. What will become oh dis niggar if you do? If de Lord in his goodness take you away, let me go wid you, Missus;’ and I was so sorry I boohooed right out, and groaned and wipy eye like courtin’ amost.
“‘Why, Uncle Sorrow,’ said she, ‘I isn’t a goin’ to die; what makes you tink dat? Stand up: I do railly believe you do lub your missus. Go to dat closet, and pour yourself out a glass of whiskey;’ and I goes to de closet—just dis way—and dere stood de bottle and a glass, as dis here one do, and I helpt myself dis fashen.
“‘What made you tink I was a goin’ for to die?’ said she, ‘do I look so ill?’
“‘No, Missus; but dat is de way de Boston preacher dat staid here last week spoke to me,—de long-legged, sour face, Yankee villain. He is uglier and yallerer dan Aunt Phillissy Anne’s crooked-necked squashes. I don’t want to see no more ob such fellers pysonin’ de minds ob de niggars here.’
“Says he, ‘My man.’
“‘I isn’t a man,’ sais I, ‘I is only a niggar.’