"'Why, Uncle Sorrow,' said she, 'I isn't a goin' to die; what makes
you tink dat? Stand up: I do railly believe you do lub your missus. Go
to dat closet, and pour yourself out a glass of whiskey;' and I goes
to de closet--just dis way--and dere stood de bottle and a glass, as
dis here one do, and I helpt myself dis fashen.
"'What made you tink I was a goin' for to die?' said she, 'do I look
so ill?'
"'No, Missus; but dat is de way de Boston preacher dat staid here last
week spoke to me,--de long-legged, sour face, Yankee villain. He is
uglier and yallerer dan Aunt Phillissy Anne's crooked-necked squashes.
I don't want to see no more ob such fellers pysonin' de minds ob de
niggars here.'
"Says he, 'My man.'
"'I isn't a man,' sais I, 'I is only a niggar.'
"'Poor, ignorant wretch,' said he.
"'Massa,' sais I, 'you has waked up de wrong passenger dis present
time. I isn't poor, I ab plenty to eat, and plenty to drink, and two
great trong wenches to help me cook, and plenty of fine frill shirt,
longin' to my old massa, and bran new hat, and when I wants money I
asks missus, and she gives it to me, and I ab white oberseer to shoot
game for me. When I wants wild ducks or wenson, all I got to do is to
say to dat Yankee oberseer, 'Missus and I want some deer or some
canvasback, I spect you had better go look for some, Massa Buccra.'
No, no, Massa, I ain't so ignorant as to let any man come over me to
make seed-corn out of me.
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