“Ma’m,” came the not very distant answer from the bushes.

“Why ’n’t you come ‘long heah, boy, an’ rock dis chile?”

“Yes’m, I comin’,” came the answer.  She waited, watching, until there emerged from the bushes a queer little caravan, headed by a small brat, who staggered under the weight of another apparently nearly as large and quite as black as himself, while several more of various degrees of diminutiveness struggled along behind.

“Ain’t you heah me callin’ you, boy?  You better come when I call you.  I’ll tyah you all to pieces!” pursued the woman, in the angriest of keys, her countenance, however, appearing unruffled.  The head of the caravan stooped and deposited his burden carefully on the ground; then, with a comical look of mingled alarm and penitence, he slowly approached the door, keeping his eye watchfully on his mother, and, picking his opportunity, slipped in past her, dodging skilfully just enough to escape a blow which she aimed at him, and which would have “slapped him flat” had it struck him, but which, in truth, was intended merely to warn and keep him in wholesome fear, and was purposely aimed high enough to miss him, allowing for the certain dodge.

The culprit, having stifled the whimper with which he was prepared, flung himself on to the foot of the rough plank cradle, and began to rock it violently and noisily, using one leg as a lever, and singing an accompaniment, of which the only words that rose above the noise of the rockers were “By-a-by, don’t you cry; go to sleep, little baby”; and sure enough the baby stopped crying and went to sleep.

Eph watched his mammy furtively as she scraped away the ashes and laid the thick pone of dough on the hearth, and shoveled the hot ashes upon it.  Supper would be ready directly, and it was time to propitiate her.  He bethought himself of a message.

“Mammy, Ole ’Stracted say you must bring he shut; he say he marster comin’ to-night.”

“How he say he is?” inquired the woman, with some interest.

“He ain’ say—­jes say he want he shut.  He sutny is comical—­he layin’ down in de baid.”  Then, having relieved his mind, Eph went to sleep in the cradle.

“‘Layin’ down in de baid?’” quoted the woman to herself as she moved about the room.  “I ‘ain’ nuver hern ‘bout dat befo’.  Dat sutny is a comical ole man anyways.  He say he used to live on dis plantation, an’ yit he al’ays talkin’ ‘bout de gret house an’ de fine kerridges dee used to have, an’ ‘bout he marster comin’ to buy him back.  De ‘ain’ nuver been no gret house on dis place, not sence I know nuttin ’bout it, ’sep de overseer house whar dat man live.  I heah Ephum say Aunt Dinah tell him de ole house whar used to be on de hill whar dat gret oak-tree is in de pines bu’nt down de year he wuz born, an’ he ole marster had to live in de overseer house, an’ hit break he heart, an’ dee teck all he niggers, an’ dat’s de way he come to blongst to we all; but dat