er whuther his own co’tin’ made ’im kin’ er easy on de co’tin’ in de qua’ters, dey ain’ no tellin’.  But dey’s one thing sho’, dat w’en Miss Libbie th’owed ‘im ober, he foun’ out ’bout Solomon en de gal monst’us quick, en gun Solomon fo’ty, en sont de gal down ter de Robeson County plantation, en tol’ all de niggers ef he ketch ’em at any mo’ sech foolishness, he wuz gwine ter skin ’em alibe en tan dey hides befo’ dey ve’y eyes.  Co’se he would n’ ‘a’ done it, but he mought ‘a’ made things wusser ’n dey wuz.  So you kin ‘magine dey wa’n’t much lub-makin’ in de qua’ters fer a long time.

[Footnote 2:  Sweetheart.]

“Mars Jeems useter go down ter de yuther plantation sometimes fer a week er mo’, en so he had ter hab a oberseah ter look atter his wuk w’iles he ‘uz gone.  Mars Jeems’s oberseah wuz a po’ w’ite man name’ Nick Johnson,—­de niggers called ‘im Mars Johnson ter his face, but behin’ his back dey useter call ’im Ole Nick, en de name suited ’im ter a T. He wuz wusser ‘n Mars Jeems ever da’ed ter be.  Co’se de darkies did n’ lack de way Mars Jeems used ’em, but he wuz de marster, en had a right ter do ez he please’; but dis yer Ole Nick wa’n’t nuffin but a po’ buckrah, en all de niggers ’spised ’im ez much ez dey hated ‘im, fer he did n’ own nobody, en wa’n’t no bettah ’n a nigger, fer in dem days any ’spectable pusson would ruther be a nigger dan a po’ w’ite man.

“Now, atter Solomon’s gal had be’n sont away, he kep’ feelin’ mo’ en mo’ bad erbout it, ’tel fin’lly he ’lowed he wuz gwine ter see ef dey could n’ be sump’n done fer ter git ’er back, en ter make Mars Jeems treat de darkies bettah.  So he tuk a peck er co’n out’n de ba’n one night, en went ober ter see ole Aun’ Peggy, de free-nigger cunjuh ’oman down by de Wim’l’ton Road.

“Aun’ Peggy listen’ ter ‘is tale, en ax’ him some queshtuns, en den tol’ ’im she ’d wuk her roots, en see w’at dey ’d say ’bout it, en ter-morrer night he sh’d come back ag’in en fetch ernudder peck er co’n, en den she ’d hab sump’n fer ter tell ’im.

“So Solomon went back de nex’ night, en sho’ ‘nuff, Aun’ Peggy tol’ ’im w’at ter do.  She gun ‘im some stuff w’at look’ lack it be’n made by poundin’ up some roots en yarbs wid a pestle in a mo’tar.

“‘Dis yer stuff,’ sez she, ‘is monst’us pow’ful kin’ er goopher.  You take dis home, en gin it ter de cook, ef you kin trus’ her, en tell her fer ter put it in yo’ marster’s soup de fus’ cloudy day he hab okra soup fer dinnah.  Min’ you follers de d’rections.’

“‘It ain’ gwineter p’isen ‘im, is it?’ ax’ Solomon, gittin’ kin’ er skeered; fer Solomon wuz a good man, en did n’ want ter do nobody no rale ha’m.

“‘Oh, no,’ sez ole Aun’ Peggy, ’it’s gwine ter do ’im good, but he’ll hab a monst’us bad dream fus’.  A mont’ fum now you come down heah en lemme know how de goopher is wukkin’.  Fer I ain’ done much er dis kin’ er cunj’in’ er late yeahs, en I has ter kinder keep track un it ter see dat it doan ‘complish no mo’ d’n I ’lows fer it ter do.  En I has ter be kinder keerful ‘bout cunj’in’ w’ite folks; so be sho’ en lemme know, w’ateber you do, des w’at is gwine on roun’ de plantation.’