“What you got in dem game-pockets to make ’em look so big? You certain’y ain’ shoot as many buds as dat in dis time?”
Gus, convicted, poked his hand into his bag and drew out the rabbit.
“Here, Uncle Robin,” he said in some confusion, “this is the only one I shot. I want you to take it and give it to Mandy.”
But the old man declined. “Nor, I don’ want it and Mandy don’ want it,” he said, half-scornfully; “you done shoot it and now yo’ better keep it.”
He stalked on up the hill in silence. Suddenly, stopping, he turned back.
“Well, well,” he said, “times certain’y is changed! Marse Gus, yo’ pa wouldn’t ’a’ told me a lie for a mule, let ’lone a’ ole hyah.”
The character of the old-time Negro can hardly be better illustrated than by the case of an old friend of mine, John Dabney, to whom I, in common with nearly all my acquaintances in Richmond, used to be greatly indebted, for he was the best caterer I ever knew. John Dabney was, in his boyhood, a race-rider for a noted Virginia turfman, Major William R. Johnson, but, possibly because of his gifts as a cook, he soon grew too fat for that “lean and hungry” calling, and in time he became a celebrated cook and caterer. He belonged to a lady in the adjoining county to my native county, and, prior to the war, he bought himself from his mistress, as was not infrequently done by clever Negroes. When the war closed, he still owed his mistress several hundred dollars on account of this debt, and as soon as he was able to raise the sum he sent it to her. She promptly returned it, telling him that he was free and would have been free anyhow and that he owed her nothing. On this, John Dabney took the money, went to his old home and insisted on her receiving it, saying that his old master had brought him up to pay his debts, and that this was a just debt which he proposed to pay. And pay it he did.
The instances are not rare in which old family servants who have worked under the new conditions more successfully than their former owners, have shown the old feeling by rendering them such acts of kindness as could only have sprung from a deep and abiding affection.
Whoever goes to the White House will find at the door of the executive offices an elderly and very stout Negro door-keeper, with perfect manners, a step as soft as the fall of the leaf, and an aplomb which nothing can disturb. His name is Arthur Simmons, and, until toward the close of the war, he was a gentleman’s servant in North Carolina; then he came North. He is, possibly, the oldest employee in the White House, having been appointed by General Grant during his first term, and having held his position, with the exception of a single term—that of General Harrison—to the present time. It is said that Mr. Cleveland’s first appointment after his return to office was that of Arthur Simmons to his old post. Possibly, Mr. Cleveland had heard this story of him: Once, Arthur, having learned that his old mistress had expressed a desire to see the President of the United States, invited her to Washington, met her at the station, saw to her comfort while in the city, arranged an interview with the President for her, and then escorted her back to take her train home.