Missus say He'm do; dat He make dis nig jess like He done
little Totty."

"Wal, He did, Jim. I'm d----d ef _He_ didn't, fur nobody else cud make
_ye_!" replied the man, patting the little woolly head with undisguised
affection.

"Now, Jim, say th' creed fur 'de gemman.'"

The young darky then repeated the Apostle's Creed and the Ten
Commandments.

"Is thet all ye knows?"

"No, massa, I knows a heap 'sides dat."

"Wal, say suthin' more--sum on 'em pieces thet jingle."

The little fellow then repeated with entire correctness, and with
appropriate gestures, and emphasis, though in the genuine darky
dialect--which seems to be inborn with the pure-Southern black--Mrs.
Hemans' poem:

"The boy stood on the burning deck."

"Mrs. Hemans draped in black!" I exclaimed, laughing heartily: "How
would the good lady feel, could she look down from where she is, and
hear a little darky doing up her poetry in that style?"

"D----d ef I doant b'lieve 'twud make her love th' little nig like I
do;" replied the corn-cracker, taking him up on his knee as tenderly as
he would have taken up his own child.

"Tell me, my little man," I said: "who taught you all these things?"

"I larned 'em, myseff, sar," was the prompt reply.

"You learned them, yourself! but who taught you to read?"

"I larned 'em myseff, sar!"

"You couldn't have learned _that_ yourself; didn't your 'massa' teach
you?"

"No, sar."

"Oh! your 'missus' did."

"No, sar."

"No, sar!" I repeated; then suspecting the real state of the case, I
looked him sternly in the eye, and said: "My little man, it's wrong to
tell lies--you must _always_ speak the truth; now, tell me truly, did
not your 'missus' teach you these things?"

"No, sar, I larned 'em myseff."

"Ye can't cum it, Stranger; ye moight roast him over a slow fire, an'
not git nary a thing eout on him but thet," said the corn-cracker,
leaning forward, and breaking into a boisterous fit of laughter. "It's
agin th' law, an' I'm d----d ef I teached him. Reckon he _did_ larn
himself!"

"I must know your wife, my friend. She's a good woman."

"Good! ye kin bet high on thet; she's uv th' stuff th' Lord makes angels
eout on."

I had no doubt of it, and was about to say so, when the Colonel's
turpentine wagon drove up, and I remembered I had left him too long
alone.

The coachman was driving, and Jim sat on the wagon beside him.

"Massa K----," said the latter, getting down and coming to me: "Whar