“Heard of ’im?” asked the old man, with a show of wrath—“why, I knowed ’im—he was a blue-gum nigger—that Jupiter was—that c’u’d pick five hundred pounds o’ cotton in a day, an’ he run off wid my secon’ wife an’ jined de Yankees. But he didn’t lib whar you placed de rickerlicshun ob his cohabitashun—he libbed up on Bear Creek. No, I got no hard feelin’s about it—for, onbeknownst to hisse’f he done me a great favor. No, I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ him, nur de Yankees, nur’r.”
“I guess not,” I said, “for since the Spanish war we are all Yankees now.”
“All Yankees now? Jes’ lemme tell you, sonny, dah’s one dat ain’t. No, suh, I am a S’uthern gemman, an’ I still b’leeves de nigger was made to belong to somebody dat ’uld feed ’im an’ mek ’im beehave. All Yankees now? Boss, I sho’ am ’shamed of you! De naixt thing you’ll hab us all Jews or Japs. Wal, dat’s all right, but I b’leeves I told you ’bout co’rtin’ dat ’ar widder—”
“You got her, didn’t you?”
“Boss, did you urver kno’ ennybody to go after a widder an’ not get her? I’ve got jes’ one rule fur co’rtin’—set up close, agree on all p’ints, an’ dat’ll fetch on love. Never ’spute wid a widder, ’specially ef you’re c’ortin’ her. Wait twell you’re marri’d an’ den bu’st a wash-bo’rd over her haid ef she don’t beehave.
“Did you urver notice, boss, how cu-is a widder is about dat ur c’ortin’ bus’ness? So diff’unt frum a gal. Now, when you co’rt a gal, she ain’t gwine say nuffin’ fur a long time. She let you co’rt her an’ co’rt her, an’ sum day, when she fin’ she lubs you, she’ll jes’ thro’ her arms aroun’ you’ neck an’ say, ‘Darlint, I am your’n—take me!’
“But wid a widder, nobody ain’t nurver got one of ’em to say ‘yes’ yit—but dey manage to git dar all de same.
“An’ dat wus de way wid dis heah widder I co’rted. De fus’ night I went to see her she ’lowed she hated de very groun’ I walked on, yet she lemme hol’ her han’ all de time. De nex’ night I was wuss’n p’lzen, yet she lemme squeeze her. De third time I was meaner ’n dog-fennel, yet I was good enuff to hug her. De nex’ time I cum she ’lowed I wus de mos’ contempt’us, po’ ignoble, bandy-legged has-been dat ever was, an’ stell I sho’ did kiss her. De las’ night she fix me—I didn’t think she’d hab me to save my life, an’ like a fool I begged her wuss’n a little weaned calf beggin’ fur milk. Dat wus jes’ whut she was layin’ fur, an’ so, entirely onbeknownst to me, she had de preacher wid de license dar hid in de closet, an’ I sw’ar ter goodness, boss, befo’ de cock crow twice dat ’ar ’oman had marri’d me thrice!
“An’ den I died,” he added solemnly. “Yes, boss, I died dead, too. You see, it all happen’ at de weddin’ supper. You see, boss, de ole man had allers been used ter drinkin’ sho’ nuff licker, but dat night dey dose me up wid a konkoction of pine-top, asserfederty an’ buzzard’s bre’f, an’ fo’ I knowed it I wus dead. Why, boss, dey burried me on de fus’ Sat’d’y arter de secon’ Sunday in January, an’ I didn’t rise ergin ’twell de Chusday arter de secon’ Sunday in March, an’ ef dat whiskey hadn’t er bin es good in its raisin’ grace as ’twas in its fallin’ grace, I’d er bin dar yit.”
“Would you like to kno’ what a man sees, an’ how he feels arter he’s dead, boss?”