“’Bount dat time I felt a ’tickler kinder mizzry in my own innards, an’ de nex’ thing I disremember I had Sister Ferreby ’round’ de neck an’ we wus singin’ dat hymn tergedder. Lor’! hit wus awful. I’ve seed menny a sight, but I nurver expect erg’in ter see three hundred an’ sixty-five niggers throwin’ up at de same time. When sum’ on ’em got dey secon’ wind dey wanted to lynch me, but by de time dey got erroun’ to me wid a rope dey ’cided I wus too nigh dead to need killin’, and by dis time dey all had to ’zamperfly de truth ob de biblical sayin’ about de dog an’ de thing he would go back to. By dis time eb’ry doctor in de country wus dar, fetchin’ all de querrintine offercers, an’ pest-tents, an’ disenfec-tents, an’ preparin’ fer c’olera an’ fever. An’ den we foun’ out what ailed us.”
“In the name of heaven, what was it?” I asked eagerly.
The tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks as he feebly begged for another drop to enable him to finish his tale. Then he said:
“Ain’t I dun tole you hundreds ob times it am de leetle mistakes we make in life dat turns de tide? Ain’t I? Wal, dat’s whut ruined me dat day, an’ terday I am a man widout offis an’ widout honor in my ole age. Dat mornin’, ’stead ob gwine down to de sto’ myse’f to get de poun’ ob tartar acid ter make up dat lemmernade wid, I saunt dat trifflin’ Jim Crow gran’son ob mine, an’ he got de names twisted, an’ ’stead ob fetchin’ me back tartar acid, he fotcht me back a poun’ ob tartar emetic, an’ I didn’t do a thing but make up dat lemmernade wid it!”
“But, surely, they wouldn’t treasure up such a mistake against you, seeing that you suffered with the rest,” I said.
“Boss,” said the old man, rising, “how long you gwine ter lib wid niggers, an’ den hafter be tole ober an’ ober ergin de same thing? In course, dey didn’t beat me fur offis on ercount ob dat fool mistake, but jes’ lemme ax you, whar is de nigger libin’ dat gwinter vote fur enny man dat’d lay out a hundred watermilions in de spring branch, let ’em look at ’em an hour, an’ den turn dat nigger’s stummick into a green-persimmon fur a week? Whar is he, I ax?” And the old man crept feebly out to find him a cheap coffin.
John Trotwood Moore.
We never give, but giving, get again;
There is no burden that we may not bear;