“A very useful function that, Sambo; and where were you born?” I asked.  “North Carolina, or Georgia?”

“Me?” he replied, looking at me quizzically.  “I guess yo’s on’y foolin’, massa.  Me?  Why, I ’ain’t never been borned at all, sah—­”

“Jess growed, eh—­like Topsy?” I asked.

“Who dat, Topsy?” he demanded.

“Oh, she was a little nigger girl that became very famous,” I explained.

“Doan’ know nuffin’ ’bout no Topsy,” he said, shaking his head.  “We ain’ niggers, eider, yo’ know, me an’ him ain’t.  We’s statulary.”

“What?” I cried.  The word seemed new.

“Statulary,” he continued.  “We was carved, we was.  There ain’t nothin’ borned ‘bout us.  Never knowed who pap was.  Man jess took a lot o’ mahble, he did, an’ chiselled me an’ him out.”

I eyed both boys closely and perceived that in all probability he spoke the truth.  His flesh and dress had all of the texture of marble, but now the question came up as to the gift of speech and movement and the marvellous and graceful flexibility of their limbs.

“You can’t fool me, Sambo,” said I.  “You’re nothing but a very good-looking little nigger.  You can’t make me believe that you are another Galatea.”

“Doan’ no nuffin’ ’bout no gal’s tears,” he returned instantly.  “But I done tole yo’ de truf.  Me an’ him was chiselled out o’ brack marble by pap.  Ef we’d been borned we’d been niggahs sho’ nuff, but bein’ carvin’s, like I tole yuh, we’s statulary.”

“But how does it come that if you are only statuary, you can move about, and talk, and breathe?” I demanded.

“Yo’ll have to ask mistah Joop’ter ’bout dat,” the boy answered.  “He done gave us dese gif’s, an’ we’s a-usin’ ob ’em.  De way it happened was like o’ dis.  Me an’ him was a standin’ upon a petterstal down in one o’ dem mahble yards what dey calls gall’ries in Paris.  We’d been sent dah by de man what done chiselled us, an’ Joop’ter he came ’long wid Miss’ Juno an’ when he seed us he said:  ’Dare you is, Juno!  Dem boys’ll make mighty good buttonses foh de hotel.’  Juno she laffed, an’ said dat was so, on’y she couldn’t see as we had many buttons.  ’Would you like to have ’em?’ Joop’ter ast, and she said ‘suttinly.’  So he tu’ned hisself into a ‘Merican millionaire an’ bought me an’ him off ‘n de manager, an’ he had us sent here.  All dat time we was nuffin’ but mahble figgers, but soon’s we arrived here, Joop’ter sent us up-stairs to de lab’ratory, an’ fust ting me an’ him knowed we was livin’ bein’s.”

I admired Jupiter’s taste, not failing either to marvel at the wonderful power which only once before, as far as I knew, he had exerted to give to a bit of sculpture all the flush and glory of life, as in the case set forth in the pathetic tale of Pygmalion and Galatea.

“And does he do this sort of thing often?” I inquired.