“Well, where is Marse Chan?” I asked.

“Hi! don’ you know?  Marse Chan, he went in de army.  I was wid ’im.  Yo’ know he warn’ gwine an’ lef Sam.”

“Will you tell me all about it?” I said, dismounting.

Instantly, and as if by instinct, the darky stepped forward and took my bridle.  I demurred a little; but with a bow that would have honored old Sir Roger, he shortened the reins, and taking my horse from me, led him along.

“Now tell me about Marse Chan,” I said.

“Lawd, marster, hit’s so long ago, I’d a’most forgit all about it, ef I hedn’ been wid him ever sence he wuz born.  Ez ’tis, I remembers it jes’ like ‘twuz yistiddy.  Yo’ know Marse Chan an’ me —­we wuz boys togerr.  I wuz older’n he wuz, jes’ de same ez he wuz whiter’n me.  I wuz born plantin’ corn time, de spring arfter big Jim an’ de six steers got washed away at de upper ford right down dyar blow de quarters ez he wuz a-bringin’ de Chris’mas things home; an’ Marse Chan, he warn’ born tell mos’ to de harves’ arfter my sister Nancy married Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s Torm, ’bout eight years arfterwoods.

“Well, when Marse Chan wuz born, dey wuz de grettes’ doin’s at home you ever did see.  De folks all hed holiday, jes’ like in de Chris’mas.  Ole marster (we didn’ call ’im ole marster tell arfter Marster Chan wuz born-befo’ dat he wuz jes’ de marster, so)—­well, ole marster, his face fyar shine wid pleasure, an’ all de folks wuz mighty glad, too, ‘cause dey all loved ole marster, and aldo’ dey did step aroun’ right peart when ole marster was lookin’ at ‘em, dyar warn’ nyar han’ on de place but what, ef he wanted anythin’, would walk up to de back poach, an’ say he warn’ to see de marster.  An’ ev’ybody wuz talkin’ ‘bout de young marster, an’ de maids an’ de wimmens ‘bout de kitchen wuz sayin’ how ’twuz de purties’ chile dey ever see; an’ at dinner-time de mens (all on ‘em hed holiday) come roun’ de poach an’ ax how de missis an’ de young marster wuz, an’ ole marster come out on de poach an’ smile wus’n a ‘possum, an’ sez, ‘Thankee!  Bofe doin’ fust rate, boys’; an’ den he stepped back in de house, sort o’ laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ in a minute he come out ag’in wid de baby in he arms, all wrapped up in flannens an’ things, an’ sez, ‘Heah he is, boys.’  All de folks den, dey went up on de poach to look at ‘im, drappin’ dey hats on de steps, an’ scrapin’ dey feets ez dey went up.  An’ pres’n’y old marster, lookin’ down at we all chil’en all packed togerr down dyah like a parecel o’ sheep-burrs, cotch sight o’ me (he knowed my name, ‘cause I use’ to hole he hoss fur ’im sometimes; but he didn’t know all de chile’n by name, dey wuz so many on ’em), an’ he sez, ‘Come up heah!’ So up I goes tippin’, skeered like, an’ old marster sez, ‘Ain’ you Mymie’s son?’’ Yass, seh,’ sez I.  ‘Well,’ sez he, ‘I’m gwine to give you to yo’ young Marse Channin’ to be his body-servant,’ an’ he put de baby right in my arms (it’s de truth I’m tellin’ yo’!), an’