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The only thing in the world that the old man held as a personal possession was his old banjo. It was the one thing the little boy counted on as a precious future property. Often, at all hours of the day or evening, old Tim could be seen sitting before the cabin, his arms around the boy, who stood between his knees, while, with eyes closed, he ran his withered fingers over the strings, picking out the tunes that best recalled the stories of olden days that he loved to tell into the little fellow’s ear. And sometimes, holding the banjo steady, he would invite little Tim to try his tiny hands at picking the strings.

“Look out how you snap ‘er too sudden!” he would exclaim if the little fingers moved too freely. “Look out, I say! Dis ain’t none o’ yo’ pick-me-up-hit-an’-miss banjos, she ain’t! An’ you mus’ learn ter treat ‘er wid rispec’, caze, when yo’ ole gran’dad dies, she gwine be yo’ banjo, an’ stan’ in his place ter yer!”

And then little Tim, confronted with the awful prospect of death and inheritance, would take a long breath, and, blinking his eyes, drop his hands at his side, saying, “You play ‘er gran’dad.”

But having once started to speak, the old man was seldom brief, and so he would continue: “It’s true dis ole banjo she’s livin’ in a po’ nigger cabin wid a ole black marster an’ a new one comin’ on blacker yit. (You taken dat arter yo’ gran’mammy, honey. She warn’t dis heah muddy-brown color like I is. She was a heap purtier and clairer black.) Well, I say, if dis ole banjo is livin’ wid po’ ignunt black folks, I wants you ter know she was born white.

“Don’t look at me so cuyus, honey. I know what I say. I say she was born white. Dat is, she de scended ter me f’om white folks. My marster bought ‘er ter learn on when we was boys together. An’ he took book lessons on ‘er too, an’ dat’s how come I say she ain’t none o’ yo’ common pick-up-my-strings-any-which-er-way banjos. She’s been played by note music in her day, she is, an’ she can answer a book note des as true as any pi anner a pusson ever listened at–ef anybody know how ter tackle ‘er. Of co’se, ef you des tackle ‘er p’omiskyus she ain’t gwine bother ‘erse’f ter play ‘cordin’ ter rule; but–

“Why, boy, dis heah banjo she’s done serenaded all de a’stocercy on dis river ‘twix’ here an’ de English Turn in her day. Yas, she is. An’ all dat expeunce is in ‘er breast now; she ‘ain’t forgot it, an’ ef air pusson dat know all dem ole book chunes was ter take ‘er up an’ call fur ’em, she’d give ’em eve’y one des as true as ever yit.

“An’ yer know, baby, I’m a-tellin’ you all dis,” he would say, in closing–“I’m a-tellin’ you all dis caze arter while, when I die, she gwine be yo’ banjo, ‘n’ I wants you ter know all ‘er ins an’ outs.”

And as he stopped, the little boy would ask, timidly, “Please, sir, gran’dad, lemme tote ‘er an’ hang ‘er up. I’ll step keerful.” And taking each step with the utmost precision, and holding the long banjo aloft in his arms as if it were made of egg-shells, little Tim would climb the stool and hang the precious thing in its place against the cabin wall.

Such a conversation had occurred to-day, and as the lad had taken the banjo from him the old man had added:

“I wouldn’t be s’prised, baby, ef ‘fo’ another year passes dat’ll be yo’ banjo, caze I feels mighty weak an’ painful some days.”