“Den I knowed how it all happen’.  Dave had kep’ on gittin’ wusser en wusser in his mine, ‘tel he des got ter b’lievin’ he wuz all done turnt ter a ham; en den he had gone en built a fier, en tied a rope roun’ his neck, des lack de hams wuz tied, en had hung hisse’f up in de smoke-’ouse fer ter kyo.

“Dave wuz buried down by de swamp, in de plantation buryin’ groun’.  Wiley didn’ died fum de woun’ he got in Mars McIntyre’s hen ’ouse; he got well atter a w’ile, but Dilsey wouldn’ hab nuffin mo’ ter do wid ’im, en ’t wa’n’t long ‘fo’ Mars Dugal’ sol’ ’im ter a spekilater on his way souf,—­he say he didn’ want no sich a nigger on de plantation, ner in de county, ef he could he’p it.  En w’en de een’ er de year come, Mars Dugal’’ turnt Mars Walker off, en run de plantation hisse’f atter dat.

“Eber sence den,” said Julius in conclusion, “w’eneber I eats ham, it min’s me er Dave.  I lacks ham, but I nebber kin eat mo’ d’n two er th’ee poun’s befo’ I gits ter studyin’ ’bout Dave, en den I has ter stop en leab de res’ fer ernudder time.”

There was a short silence after the old man had finished his story, and then my wife began to talk to him about the weather, on which subject he was an authority.  I went into the house.  When I came out, half an hour later, I saw Julius disappearing down the lane, with a basket on his arm.

At breakfast, next morning, it occurred to me that I should like a slice of ham.  I said as much to my wife.

“Oh, no, John,” she responded, “you shouldn’t eat anything so heavy for breakfast.”

I insisted.

“The fact is,” she said, pensively, “I couldn’t have eaten any more of that ham, and so I gave it to Julius.”

A Deep Sleeper

It was four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, in the month of July.  The air had been hot and sultry, but a light, cool breeze had sprung up, and occasional cirrus clouds overspread the sun, and for a while subdued his fierceness.  We were all out on the piazza—­as the coolest place we could find—­my wife, my sister-in-law and I. The only sounds that broke the Sabbath stillness were the hum of an occasional vagrant bumble-bee, or the fragmentary song of a mocking-bird in a neighboring elm, who lazily trolled a stave of melody, now and then, as a sample of what he could do in the cool of the morning, or after a light shower, when the conditions would be favorable to exertion.

“Annie,” said I, “suppose, to relieve the deadly dulness of the afternoon, that we go out and pull the big watermelon, and send for Colonel Pemberton’s folks to come over and help us eat it.”

“Is it ripe, yet?” she inquired sleepily, brushing away a troublesome fly that had impudently settled on her hair.

“Yes, I think so.  I was out yesterday with Julius, and we thumped it, and concluded it would be fully ripe by tomorrow or next day.  But I think it is perfectly safe to pull it to-day.”