188 THE LAND OF PLUCK

wm

and seem t’ t'ink de oben was ‘mos’ big as de barn. Many’s
de time I got so tired seem’d to me’s if I’d drop; but
afer missus sed dad, I did 1’ mind nuttin’. ‘Patsy, sez I,
when I seed myse’f gettin’ done up, ‘yer goo’ f nuffin’ lazy

nigger, wha’ ’s matter wid yer? Don’ yer know yer ’s wuf

oo

 

yo weight in gole?’—and dat ud fotch me squar’ up.
Many ’s de time I ’se sed dem words to myse’f sence dat
day, but wid dis diff’ence: Missus, dear soul! she done
gone to Alvam’s bosom four year ’go; an’ ole Patsy eber
sence ’s been mos’ too fur on wid dis ere cough to be much
‘count to white folks—and so I keep sayin’ to myse’f,
‘Yer wuz wuf yer weight in gole. Don’ you nebber forgit
dat.”

And, all this time, the brightly kerchiefed and check-
aproned speaker was going on briskly with her work, while
I sat looking at her with an amused smile ?

Not a bit of it. She was helpless in bed, dying of con-
sumption, and my heart was full of reverence as I stood
gently fanning her. She was talking beyond her strength,
but I knew it was useless to check her while her thoughts
were with this treasured saying of her “missus.” Presently
she sank into a doze. I stood there, afraid to move lest I
should wake her.

In a few moments she opened her eyes.

“Bress yer heart, Miss Mamie, don’ stan’ dere no lon-
ger. Ole Patsy don’ want ter be nussed like she war a
queen.”

Her eyes were so bright and her tones so cheerful that I
thought she was going to laugh; but, instead, she said
softly :