Seeing that I regarded her movements with a look of startled interest, Joe said:
'Leff har do what she likes, sar. She hab suffin' to say to you.'
Taking a small bag[1] from her bosom, and placing it in the open front of my waistcoat, she reached out her long, skinny arm, and placing her skeleton hand on the top of my head, chanted a low song. The words were mostly English, and the few I caught were something as follows:
'Oh, bress de swanga buckra man;
Bress wife an' chile ob buckra man.'
Bress all dat b'long to buckra man;
Barimo[2] bress de buckra man;
De good Lord bress de buckra man;
Bress, bress de swanga buckra man.'
As she finished the invocation, she took both my hands in hers, and leaning forward, and muttering a few low words, seemed trying to read the story imprinted on my palms. Her eyes were closed, and thinking she might be troubled to see me without the use of those organs, I looked inquiringly at her son.
'She don't need eyes, sar,' said Joe, answering my thought; 'she'll tell all 'bout you widout dem.'
As he said this, she dropped one of my hands, and raising her right arm, made several passes over my head, then resting her hand again upon it, she began chanting another low song:
'What der yer see, mudder?' asked Joe, leaning forward, with a look of intense interest on his face.
'A tall gemman-de swanga gemman—in a big city. De night am dark an' cole—bery cole. Pore little chile am wid him, an' he cole—bery cole; him cloes pore—bery pore. Dey come to a big hous'n—great light in de winders—an' dey gwo in—swanga gemman an' pore chile. A great room dar, wid big fire, an' oh! sweet young missus. She jump up-swanga gemman speak to har, an' show de pore chile. She look sorry like, an' cry; den she frow har arm 'roun' de pore chile; take him to de fire, an' kiss him—kiss him ober an' ober agin.'
It was the scene when Kate first saw Frank, on the night of his mother's death. I said nothing, but Joe asked: