“Has I had any trouble?  Misto C-----, I’s gwyne to tell you, den I leave
it to you.   I was bawn down ’mongst de slaves; I knows all ’bout slavery,
’case I ben one of ’em my own se’f.   Well sah, my ole man—­dat’s my
husban’—­he was lov an’ kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo’ own
wife.   An’ we had chil’en—­seven chil’en—­an’ loved dem chil’en jist de
same as you loves yo’ chil’en.   Dey was black, but de Lord can’t make
chil’en so black but what dey mother loves ’em an’ wouldn’t give ’em up,
no, not for anything dat’s in dis whole world.

“Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo’ginny, but mother she was raised in Maryland; an’ my souls she was turrible when she’d git started!  My lan! but she’d make de fur fly!  When she’d git into dem tantrums, she always had one word dat she said.  She’d straighten herse’f up an’ put her fists in her hips an’ say, ‘I want you to understan’ dat I wa’n’t bawn in the mash to be fool’ by trash!  I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ ’Ca’se you see, dat’s what folks dat’s bawn in Maryland calls deyselves, an’ dey’s proud of it.  Well, dat was her word.  I don’t ever forgit it, beca’se she said it so much, an’ beca’se she said it one day when my little Henry tore his wris’ awful, and most busted ’is head, right up at de top of his forehead, an’ de niggers didn’t fly aroun’ fas’ enough to ‘tend to him.  An’ when dey talk’ back at her, she up an’ she says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ she says, ‘I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wa’n’t bawn in de mash be fool’ by trash!  I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s chickens, I is!’ an’ den she clar’ dat kitchen an’ bandage’ up de chile herse’f.  So I says dat word, too, when I’s riled.

“Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she’s broke, an she got to sell all de niggers on de place.  An’ when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in Richmon’, oh, de good gracious!  I know what dat mean!”

Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars.

“Dey put chains on us an’ put us on a stan’ as high as dis po’ch—­twenty foot high—­an’ all de people stood aroun’, crowds ‘an’ crowds.  An’ dey’d come up dah an’ look at us all roun’, an’ squeeze our arm, an’ make us git up an’ walk, an’ den say, Dis one too ole,’ or ‘Dis one lame,’ or ’Dis one don’t ‘mount to much.’  An’ dey sole my ole man, an’ took him away, an’ dey begin to sell my chil’en an’ take dem away, an’ I begin to cry; an’ de man say, ‘Shet up yo’ damn blubberin’,’ an’ hit me on de mouf wid his han’.  An’ when de las’ one was gone but my little Henry, I grab’ him clost up to my breas’ so, an’ I ris up an’ says, ’You sha’nt take him away,’ I says; ‘I’ll kill de man dat tetch him!’ I says.  But my little Henry whisper an’ say ‘I gwyne to run away, an’ den I work an’ buy yo’ freedom’ Oh, bless de chile, he always so good!  But dey got him—­dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo’es mos’ off of ’em an’ beat ‘em over de head wid my chain; an’ dey give it to me too, but I didn’t mine dat.