“‘Poor, ignorant wretch,’ said he.
“‘Massa,’ sais I, ‘you has waked up de wrong passenger dis present time. I isn’t poor, I ab plenty to eat, and plenty to drink, and two great trong wenches to help me cook, and plenty of fine frill shirt, longin’ to my old massa, and bran new hat, and when I wants money I asks missus, and she gives it to me, and I ab white oberseer to shoot game for me. When I wants wild ducks or wenson, all I got to do is to say to dat Yankee oberseer, ‘Missus and I want some deer or some canvasback, I spect you had better go look for some, Massa Buccra.’ No, no, Massa, I ain’t so ignorant as to let any man come over me to make seed-corn out of me. If you want to see wretches, go to James Town, and see de poor white critters dat ab to do all dere own work deyselves, cause dey is so poor, dey ab no niggars to do it for ’em.’
“Sais he, ‘Hab you ebber tort ob dat long journey dat is afore you? to dat far off counteree where you will be mancipated and free, where de weary hab no rest, and de wicked hab no labor?’
“‘Down to Boston I spose, Massa,’ sais I, ‘mong dem pententionists and ablutionists, Massa; ablution is a mean, nasty, dirty ting, and don’t suit niggars what hab good missus like me, and I won’t take dat journey, and I hate dat cold counteree, and I want nottin’ to do wid mansipationists.’
“‘It ain’t dat, said he, ‘it’s up above.’
“‘What,’ sais I, ‘up dere in de mountains? What onder de sun should I go dere for to be froze to defth, or to be voured by wild beasts? Massa, I won’t go nowhere widout dear missus goes.’
“‘I mean Heaben,’ he said, ‘where all are free and all equal; where joy is, and sorrow enters not.’
“‘What,’ sais I, ‘Joy in Heaben? I don’t believe one word of it. Joy was de greatest tief on all dese tree plantations of missus; he stole more chicken, and corn, and backey, dan his great bull neck was worth, and when he ran off, missus wouldn’t let no one look for him. Joy in Heaben, eh; and Sorrow nebber go dere! Well, I clare now! Yah, yah, yah, Massa, you is foolin’ dis here niggar now, I know you is when you say Joy is dead, and gone to Heaben, and dis child is shot out for ebber. Massa,’ sais I, ‘me and missus don’t low ablution talk here, on no account whatsomever, de only larnin’ we lows of is whippin’ fellows who tice niggars to rections, and de slaves of dis plantation will larn you as sure as you is bawn, for dey lub missus dearly. You had better kummence de long journey usself. Sallust, bring out dis gentleman hoss; and Plutarch, go fetch de saddle-bag down.’
“I led his hoss by where de dogs was, and, sais I, ‘Massa, I can’t help larfin’ no how I can fix it, at dat ar story you told me about dat young rascal Joy. Dat story do smell rader tall, dat are a fac; yah, yah, yah,’ and I fell down and rolled ober and ober on de grass, and it’s lucky I did, for as I dodged he fetched a back-handed blow at me wid his huntin’ whip, that would a cut my head off if it had tooked me round my neck.
“My missus larfed right out like any ting, tho’ it was so hot, and when missus larf I always know she is good-natured.