“Den ’Lish, des es naked as er new-borned baby, fall down an’ foam an’ foam at de mouf, but Unc’ Cæsar won’ let nobody tech him.
“Dey all stan’ an’ wait, des er hol’in’ dey brefs ter see what gwine happin, an’ bimeby de blaze hit die an’ de smoke cl’ar ’way, an’ dar wa’n’t nuffin lef’ but er little pile er ashes, an’ de niggers falls ter whisperin’, ercusin’ Unc’ Cæsar fur burnin’ up po’ sick ’Lish’s cabin an’ his kivers; when Unc’ Cæsar he p’int one long arm wid er long, shakin’ finger, an’ say: ’Look!’—an’, bless goodness! right dar in de middle er de pile er hot ashes dat des still er-smould’rin’, sot de berry same ole black cat, des er-grinnin’ fitten ter bust.
“De niggers dey was skeered, an’ dey ain’ know what ter do, but dey fotch one shout fur ’glory!’ an’ dat nigger ’Lish he fall ter prayin’ good, ’case he know dat de cuss er de debil was offen him now, an’ de soul an’ de body was free.”
’LIZA
“Dar wa’n’t no tickler pusson nowhar ’n ’Liza’s Maw, Bithie,” said Mammy, as she drew the basket of wool within reach and took up her cards.
“Dar wa’n’t no ’tickler pusson ’n Bithie, slave time ner free; but de way dat ’Liza git ’way wid her one time were er caution.
“‘Liza hain’t nebber been seed but oncet sence, nuther, an’ den hit were only fur er minute, an’ she didn’ speak ter nobody, ner gib out nuffin, but des look plum mizerbul an’ po’ly. Mus’ be mighty ole now, if she’s libin’, which I ’specs she am, fur Unc’ ’Jah say dat bein’ de way dat ’Liza git ter be by her own sinnin’, dey cain’t ebber die, much es dey wanter, an’ I knows dat wharebber ’Liza am, dat she shore wanter die,” added Mammy, mysteriously, as the long soft roll grew under her manipulation. There was a chorus of questions from the quilters who bent over the frame, but Mammy freed the roll and laid fresh wool between her cards before she spoke again.
“A-a-h, lawsy!—dis ole worl’ hain’t no better ’n hit uster was, but I don’ spec’ de Lord gwine let hit git no wusser—he des gwine min’ his own bus’ness, an’ let hit clean hitself lack mos’ t’ings in natur’ does!”
“Tell us about ’Liza, Mammy!” came in chorus from the quilt.
“Well well—arter while,” said Mammy. “Wait twel de chillen git ter bed, fur de tale er what ’Liza do, hain’t fitten fur de years er chillen, es powerful knowin’ es dey is,” and Mammy sighed again, then worked in silence, wrapped in deepest contemplation.