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“De Maconses, de Berkeleyses, de Carterses, de Bassettses, de Wickhamses, de Nelsonses, an’ dem!”–(the final ending “es” was plainly supposed to give additional dignity)–“now dee is sho ‘nough quality. I know all ’bout ’em.” He paused long enough to permit this to sink in.

“I b’longst to Doc’ Macon. You know what he wuz?”

His emphasis compelled me to acknowledge his exalted position or abandon forever all hope of retaining my own; so I immediately assented, and inquired how long he had been in “this country,” as he designated his adopted region. He turned with some severity to one of his companions, a stout and slatternly woman, very black, and many years his junior.

“How long is I been heah, Lucindy?”

The woman addressed, by way of answer, turned half away, and gave a little nervous laugh. “I don’t know how long you been heah, you been heah so long; mos’ forty years, I reckon.” This sally called from her companions a little ripple of amusement.

“Dat’s my wife, suh,” the old gentleman explained, apologetically. “She’s de one I got now; she come f’om up heah in dis ken-try.” His voice expressed all that the words were intended to convey. Lucindy, who appeared accustomed to such contemptuous reference, merely gave another little explosion which shook her fat shoulders.

As, however, I was expected to endorse all his views, I changed the embarrassing subject by inquiring how he had happened to leave the old county.

“Ole marster gi’ me to Miss Fanny when she ma’yed Marse William Fitzhugh,” he explained. “I wuz ma’yed den to Marth’ Ann; she wuz Miss Fanny’s maid, an’ when she come up heah wid Miss Fanny, I recompany her.” He would not admit that his removal was a permanent one. “I al’ays layin’ out to go back home, but I ‘ain’ been yit. Dee’s mos’ all daid b’fo’ dis, suh?”

He spoke as if this were a fact, but there was a faint inquiry in his eyes if not in his tone. I was sorry not to be able to inform him differently, and, to change the subject, I started to ask him a question. “Martha Ann–” I began, and then paused irresolute.

“She’s daid too,” he said simply.

“How many children have you?” I asked.

“I ‘ain’ got but beah one now, suh, ef I got dat one,” he replied; “dat’s P’laski.”

“How many have you had?”

“Well, suh, dat’s a partic’lar thing to tell,” he said, with a whimsical look on his face. “De Scripturs says you is to multiply an’ replanish de uth; but I s’pecks I’s had some several mo’n my relowance; dar’s Jeems, an’ Peter, an’ Jeremiah, an’ Hezekiah, an’ Zekyel, Ananias an’ Malachi, Matthew an’ Saint Luke, besides de gals. Dee’s all gone; an’ now I ‘ain’ got but jes dat P’laski. He’s de wuthlisses one o’ de whole gang. He tecks after his mammy.”

The reference to Pulaski appeared to occasion some amusement among his friends, and I innocently inquired if he was Martha Ann’s son.

“Nor, suh, dat he warn’!” was the vehement and indignant answer. “Ef he had ‘a’ been, he nuver would ‘a’ got me into all dat trouble. Dat wuz de mortification o’ my life, suh. He got all dat meanness fom his mammy. Dat ooman dyah is his mammy.” He indicated the plump Lucindy with his long stick, which he poked at her contemptuously. “Dat’s what I git for mar’yin’ one o’ dese heah up-kentry niggers!” The “up-kentry” spouse was apparently quite accustomed to this characterization, for she simply looked away, rather in embarrassment at my gaze being directed to her than under any stronger emotion. Her liege continued: “Lucindy warn’ quality like me an’ Marth’ Ann, an’ her son tooken after her. What’s in de myah will come out in de colt; an’ he is de meanes’ chile I uver had. I name de urrs fom de Scriptur’, but he come o’ a diff’-ent stock, an’ I name him arter Mr. P’laski Greener, whar Lucindy use’ to b’longst to, an’ I reckon maybe dat’s de reason he so natchally evil. I had mo’ trouble by recount o’ dat boy ‘n I hed when I los’ Marth’ Ann.”