“Do you really intend to call the child by that name?” inquired Mr Berecroft.

“Why not? it pleases the woman, and is as good as any other; it is of no consequence.  They almost all have names, certainly not quite so long as the present; but as they grow longer, their names grow shorter.  This name will first be abbreviated to Chrony; if we find that too long, it will be reduced again to Crow; which, by-the-bye, is not a bad name for a negro,” said the planter, laughing at the coincidence.

Reader, did you ever, perchance, when in a farmyard, observe a hen or other domestic fowl, who having pounced upon half a potato, or something of the same description, too large to be bolted down at once, tries to escape with her prize, followed by all the rest, until she either drops it or eludes their vigilance?  If so, you form some idea of a negro woman with a hard word in her mouth; which, although she does not know the meaning of, she considers as an equal treasure.

Newton had turned round to the courtyard, in the centre of which several women were sitting down at various employments; when one who had been busied in some little offices for the woman whom they had just visited, and had in consequence been present at the choice of the name, took her seat with the party in question.  To several queries put to her she replied with extreme hauteur, as if she considered them as impertinent, and frowned upon her companions most majestically.

After a short time she rose, and turning round, with the look of an empress, said, “Now, I shall go look after my Hoton-poton-pollybass.”

“Eh?” cried one, opening her eyes with wonder.

“What dat?” screamed another.

“How you call dat long ting?” demanded a third.

“Eh! you tupid black tings,” replied the proud possessor of the new word, with a look of ineffable scorn, “you no know what um call Poton-hoton-poll-fass.  Me no tell you,” continued she, as she walked away, leaving the others almost white with envy and astonishment.

Shortly after this Mr Kingston with his party took their leave of the hospitable old planter, and commenced their return to Bridgetown.  They had not proceeded further than a quarter of a mile, when, ascending a little hill, Newton discovered that a negro was assisting his own ascent by hanging on to the tail of his mule.

“How do you do this morning, sar?” said the man, grinning, as Newton looked round.

“I’m very well, sir, I thank you; but I’m afraid I shall not be able to keep up with the rest, if my mule has to pull you up hill, as well as carry me.”

“Es, sar, mule go faster.  Massa not understand; mule very obstinate, sar.  Suppose you want go one way, he go anoder—­suppose you pull him back by tail, he go on more.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you may hold on.  Do you belong to the plantation?”

“No, sar, me free man.  Me work there; carpenter, sar.”