“W’en Ben stahted out he wanted ter go ter de No’th.  He didn’ know how fur it wuz, bet he ‘lowed he retch dar in fo’ er five days.  He knowed de No’th Stah, an’ de fus night he kep’ gwine right straight to’ds it.  But de nex’ night it was rainin,’ an’ fer two er th’ee nights it stayed cloudy, an’ Ben couldn’ see de No’th Stah.  Howsomeber, he knowed he had got stahted right’ an’ he kep’ gwine right straight on de same way fer a week er mo’ ‘spectin’ ter git ter de No’th eve’y day, w’en one mawin’ early, atter he had b’en walkin’ all night, he come right smack out on de crick jes whar he had stahted f’om.

“Co’se Ben wuz monst’us disapp’inted.  He had been wond’rin’ w’y he hadn’ got ter de No’th befo,’ an’ behol,’ heah he wuz back on de ole plantation.  He couldn’ un’erstan’ it at fus,’ but he wuz so hongry he didn’ hab time ter study ‘bout nuffin’ fer a little w’ile but jes’ ter git sump’n’ ter eat; fer he had done eat up de bread an’ meat he tuk away wid ‘im, an’ had been libbin’ on roas’n-ears an’ sweet’n taters he’d slip out’n de woods an’ fin’ in co’n fiel’s ’an ’tater-patches.  He look ‘cross de crick, an’ seed dis yer clay-bank, an’ he waded ober an’ got all he could eat, an’ den tuk a lump wid ‘im, an’ hid in de woods ag’in ’til he could study de matter ober some.

“Fus’ he ‘lowed dat he better gib hiss’ef up an’ take his lammin.’  But jes’ den he ’membered de way Mars Marrabo looked at ‘im an’ w’at he said ‘bout Sad’day night; an’ den he ’lowed dat ef Mars Marrabo ketch ’im now, he’d wear ‘im ter a frazzle an’ chaw up de frazzle, so de wouldn’ be nuffin’ lef’ un ‘im at all, an’ dat Mars Marrabo would make a’ example an’ a warnin’ of ‘im fer all de niggers in de naberhood.  Fac’ is Mars Marrabo prob’ly wouldn’ a’ done much ter ’im fer it ’ud be monst’us po’ ’couragement fer runaway niggers ter come back, ef dey gwineter git killed w’en dey come.  An’ so Ben waited ’til night, an’ den he went back an’ got some mo’ clay an’ eat it an’ hid hisse’f in de woods ag’in.

“Well, hit wuz quare ‘bout Ben, but he stayed roun’ heah fer a mont,’ hidin’ in de woods in de daytime, an’ slippin’ out nights an’ gittin’ clay ter eat an’ water f’om de crick yanker ter drink.  De water in dat crick wuz cl’ar in dem days, stidder bein’ yallar lak it is now.”

We had observed that the water, like that of most streams that take their rise in swamps, had an amber tint to which the sand and clay background of the bed of the stream imparted an even yellower hue.

“What did he do then, Julius?” asked my wife, who liked to hear the end of a story.

“Well, Miss, he made up his min’ den dat he wuz gwineter staht fer de No’th ag’in.  But wiles he b’en layin’ roun’ in de woods he had ’mence ter feel monst’us lonesome, an’ it ‘peared ter him dat he jes’ couldn’ go widout seein’ Dasdy an’ little Pete.  Fus’ he ’lowed he’d go up ter de cabin, but he thought ’bout de dogs ‘roun’ de yahd, an’ dat de yuther dahkies mought see ’im, and so he ’cided he’d better watch fer ’em ’til dey come long de road—­it wuz dis yer same road—­w’en he could come out’n de woods an’ talk ter ’em.  An’ he eben ’lowed he mought ’suade ’em ter run erway wid ‘im an’ dey could all get ter de No’th, fer de nights wuz cl’ar now, an’ he couldn’ lose de No’th Stah.