“Well, if you can’t pick cotton,” he said to Alston, “what can you do?”

“Mos’ anything else, moster.  I kin do ev’rything ’bout cawn; I kin split rails; I kin plough; I kin drive carriage.”

“Could you run a cotton-gin?”

“Reckon so, moster:  the black folks says it’s tolerbul easy.”

“Well, now, look here:  you and Lizay get some dinner, an’ then do you take a back-trot for the plantation.  I’ll sen’ Buck a note:  no, he can’t more’n half read writin’.  Well, do you tell him, Alston, to put you to ginnin’ cotton:  Little Sam mus’ work with you a few days till you get the hang of the thing; an’ then I want you to show that plantation what ’tis to serve master faithfully.  You see, I believe in you, my man.”

“Thanky, moster.  I’ll wuck fer yer haud’s I kin.  Please God, I’ll sarve yer faithful.”

“Of cou’se, Lizay, you’ll go back to pickin’ cotton, an’ don’t let me hear any mo’ of you’ nonsense—­helpin’ a strappin’ fellow twice you’ size.  An’ tell Buck I won’t have him whippin’ any my negroes ev’ry night in the week.  Confound it! a mule couldn’t stan’ it.  If I’ve got a negro that needs floggin’ ev’ry night, I’ll sell him or give ’im away, or turn ’im out to grass to shif’ for himself.  I’ll be out there soon, an’ ‘ten’ to things.  If anybody needs a floggin’, tell Buck to send ’im to me.  Tell the folks to work like clever Christians, an’ they shall have a fus’-rate Christmas—­a heap of Christmas-gifts.”

“Yes, moster.”

“Do you an’ Lizay want to get married right away, or wait till Christmas?”

Alston and Little Lizay looked at each other, smiling in an embarrassed way.

“But, moster,” said Alston, “I’s got a wife an’ fou’ childun in Ol’ Virginny, an’ I promused I’d wait an’ wouldn’t git morred ag’in tell she’d write ter me ef her moster’d sell her; an’ I was goin’ ter ax yer ter buy ’er.”

“You needn’t pester yourself about that.  I got a letter for you the other day from her,” the doctor said, fumbling in his pockets.

“Yer did, sah?” Alston said with interest.

“Yes:  here it is.  Can you read? or shall I read it to you?”

“Ef yer please, moster.”

Then Dr. Horton read: 

“MY DEAR B’LOVED HUSBUN’:  Miss Marthy Jane takes my pen in han’ ter let yer know I’s well, an’ our childun’s well, an’ all the black folks is tolerbul well ’cept Juno:  her’s got the polsy tolerbul bad.  All the white folks ’bout yere is will ’cept mistis:  her’s got the dumps.  All the childun say, Howdy? the black folks all says, Howdy? an’ Pete says, Howdy? an’ Andy says, Howdy? an’ Viny says, Howdy? an’ Cinthy says, Howdy? an’ Tony Tucker says, Howdy? and Brudder Thomas Jeff’son Hollan’ says, Howdy?  Last time I see’d Benj’man Franklins Bedfud, he says, ‘’Member, an’ don’t fawgit, the fus’ time yer writes, ter tell Als’on, Howdy?’

“Yer ’fectionate wife, CHLOE.”