r Waldron. "The little
negroes been bothering your splits again?"

"Dey's all de time at dat, marster, an' dey gwine git hu't, mun, ef dey
fool long o' me; but den dat ain't wat I come fur dis time. I come fur
ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de time."

"There's plenty of time, Uncle Bob; take a seat, then, if we are to have
a talk;" and Major Waldron lit his cigar, and leaned back, while Uncle
Bob seated himself on a low chair, and said:

"Marster, I come ter ax yer wat'll yer take fur dat little boy yer
bought fum de specerlaters?"

"Ann's little boy?" asked his master; "why, I would not sell him at all.
I only bought him because his mother was dying of exposure and fatigue,
and I wanted to relieve her mind of anxiety on his account. I would
certainly never sell her child away from her."

"Yes, sar, dat's so," replied the old man; "but den my min', hit's made
up. I've laid me up er little money fum time ter time, wen I'd be er
doct'in' uv hosses an' mules an' men'in' cheers, an' all sich ez dat; de
folks dey pays me lib'ul; an', let erlone dat, I'm done mighty well wid
my taters an' goobers, er sellin' uv 'em ter de steamboat han's, wat
takes 'em ter de town, an' 'sposes uv 'em. So I'm got er right smart
chance uv money laid up, sar; an' now I wants ter buy me er nigger, same
ez wite folks, fur ter wait on me an' bresh my coat an' drive my
kerridge; an' I 'lowed ef yer'd sell de little wite nigger, I'd buy
'im," and Uncle Bob chuckled and laughed.

"Why, Bob, I believe you are crazy," said his master, "or drunk."

"I ain't neder one, marster; but den I'm er jokin' too much, mo'n de
'lenity uv de cazhun inquires, an' now I'll splain de facks, sar."

And Uncle Bob related Ann's story to his master, and wound up by saying:

"An' now, marster, my min', hit's made up. I wants ter buy de little
chap, an' give 'im ter his mammy, de one wat God give 'im to. Hit'll go
mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top
er years er layin' uv it up, an' hit's er mighty cumfut ter me er
countin' an' er jinglin' uv it; but hit ain't doin' nobody no good er
buried in de groun'; an' I don't special need it myse'f, caze you gives
me my cloes, an' my shoes, an' my eatin's, an' my backer, an' my wisky,
an' I ain't got no cazhun fur ter spen' it; an', let erlone dat, I can't
stay hyear fureber, er countin' an' er jinglin' dat money, caze wen de
angel soun' dat horn, de ole nigger h