“Chillen, git on de bo’de,
Chillen, git on de bo’de,
Chillen, git on de bo’de, bo’de, bo’de,
Dere’s room for many a mo’,”—
were the words that came in high but not unmusical tones from the depths of the kitchen, where I knew Jule was struggling with the week’s ironing.
After puzzling over them for some time I cried, “What does she mean, auntie?”
Auntie laughed. “Oh, you Yankee! Will you never learn negro talk? Do they never sing about the ‘gospel ship’ in Boston? That is what Jule means.”
“Oh, is that it?” I replied, laughing in my turn. “I couldn’t imagine how she was going to ‘get on a board’ with her two hundred pounds of flesh.
“I’m tired of sewing: I guess I’ll go down and talk to her a little while.”
Jule welcomed me to her snug kitchen, with a smile which disclosed her shining white teeth; and I seated myself by her ironing-table, and begged her to tell me of the days “befo’ de wah.”
“Tell me how you became free,” I said, as she resumed her work. “Were you set free, or did you run away?” hoping secretly that the latter was the case.
Her black eyes sparkled, and she tossed her gayly turbaned head, as she answered—
“’Deed, miss, I just runned away.”