e middle er de flo', en right ober
de fier, hangin' fum one er de rafters, wuz Dave; dey wuz a rope roun'
his neck, en I didn' haf ter look at his face mo' d'n once fer ter see
he wuz dead.

"Den I knowed how it all happen'. Dave had kep' on gittin' wusser en
wusser in his mine, 'tel he des got ter b'lievin' he wuz all done turnt
ter a ham; en den he had gone en built a fier, en tied a rope roun' his
neck, des lack de hams wuz tied, en had hung hisse'f up in de
smoke-'ouse fer ter kyo.

"Dave wuz buried down by de swamp, in de plantation buryin' groun'.
Wiley didn' died fum de woun' he got in Mars McIntyre's hen 'ouse; he
got well atter a w'ile, but Dilsey wouldn' hab nuffin mo' ter do wid
'im, en 't wa'n't long 'fo' Mars Dugal' sol' 'im ter a spekilater on his
way souf,--he say he didn' want no sich a nigger on de plantation, ner
in de county, ef he could he'p it. En w'en de een' er de year come, Mars
Dugal'' turnt Mars Walker off, en run de plantation hisse'f atter dat.

"Eber sence den," said Julius in conclusion, "w'eneber I eats ham, it
min's me er Dave. I lacks ham, but I nebber kin eat mo' d'n two er th'ee
poun's befo' I gits ter studyin' 'bout Dave, en den I has ter stop en
leab de res' fer ernudder time."

There was a short silence after the old man had finished his story, and
then my wife began to talk to him about the weather, on which subject he
was an authority. I went into the house. When I came out, half an hour
later, I saw Julius disappearing down the lane, with a basket on his
arm.

At breakfast, next morning, it occurred to me that I should like a slice
of ham. I said as much to my wife.

"Oh, no, John," she responded, "you shouldn't eat anything so heavy for
breakfast."

I insisted.

"The fact is," she said, pensively, "I couldn't have eaten any more of
that ham, and so I gave it to Julius."

A Deep Sleeper

It was four o'clock on Sunday afternoon, in the month of July. The air
had been hot and sultry, but a light, cool breeze had sprung up, and
occasional cirrus clouds overspread the sun, and for a while subdued his
fierceness. We were all out on the piazza--as the coolest place we could
find--my wife, my sister-in-law and I. The only sounds that broke the
Sabbath stillness were the hum of an occasional vagrant bumble-bee, or
the fragmentary song of a mocking-bird in a neighboring elm, who lazily
trolled a stave of melody, now and then, as a sample of what he could do
in the cool