Jos. Jones.
LETTER X.
Pineville, Ga., March 21st, 1844.
Dear Sir,
You mustn’t think hard cause I hain’t rit you a letter for so long a time. Sense the arrival of the little stranger, my time what I’ve had to spare from the plantation is been pretty much tuck up with nussin’ and gwine to town after doctor stuff for it.
Babys is wundrous supprisin’ things, Mr. Thompson, as you know, and when one thinks how much trouble they give a body, we almost wunder what makes us so anxious to have ’em. You mustn’t think I’m beginnin’ to git tired of mine. No indeed, not by no means. I wouldn’t give my little Harry Clay for all the niggers and plantations in Georgy, as much trouble and worryment as he gives me. Ain’t it curious what store we do set by the little creeters, even before we’ve had ’em long enuff to know anything about ’em. It seems like a new fountin of happyness is opened in our harts, a new value given to everything we’ve got, and a new purpose to our lives, when for the fust time we look upon a little helpless bein’ that is born of our love, and is dependent on us for support and protection. How anxious we is to do everything we can for ’em! What pleasure we find in the pains we take to make ’em happy. But you is a man of experience in these matters, Mr. Thompson, and I needn’t tell you nothin’ abou’ it. I must tell you though, what a terrible skeer we had t’other night with the baby.
I had been down to Tom Stallinses mill, to see about gittin’ out some lumber to bild me a new gin-house, and had been ridin’ and workin’ hard all day in the wet, and cum home monstrous tired, late in the evenin’. Mary and the baby was all well, and I went to bed pretty early, thinkin’ to git a good nite’s rest for the fust time in a month. Well, how long I’d been sleepin’, I can’t tell, but the fust thing I know’d was Mary pullin’ my hair to make me wake up.
“Joseph!—Joseph!” ses she.
“Ha! what’s the matter?” ses I, when I seed her leanin’ over in the bed with the lamp in her hand, and her face as pale as the gown she had on.