“I don’ wanter work none, Ole Marse. I wants ter hear dat horn blow at five in de mornin’, an’ I wants ter git up, mad lack, an’ holler outen de winder, ’You derned ole raskil, what you wake me up dis time er day fur?’ Den I wants ter fling my boot-jack at him, an’ go on back ter sleep, I does. Um, um—an’ when de ole ’oman ’low, ’Cage, yo’ git up an’ make dat fire,’ I wants ter ’low back ter her, ’I hain’t er-makin’ fires fur niggers,’ an’ I wants ter go back ter sleep, I does—fur, Ole Marse”—here Cage bent closer and almost whispered—“I wants my freedom fum de ole ’oman too, den, an’ I don’t want her ter git freedom, nohow.” “All right. Anything else to go with your freedom, Micajah?” All timidity and sullenness were forgotten, and Micajah’s face was radiant. “I don’ wanter hope do dat cl’arin’, Ole Marse, down by de ribber, an’ when de niggers is er-sweatin’ an’ er-workin’, I wants ter be takin’ er my ease. Um, um—an’ I wants some clo’se, white folks’ clo’se; an’, Ole Marse, I wants er book lack yo’ got in de house.” “A book? When did you learn to read, Micajah?” “Lord! Ole Marse, ole Cage cain’t read; he des want ter tote hit roun’ lack yo’ does.” “You shall have it,” said the master, heartily. “Now what else?” “I wants er little nigger, er little nigger, Ole Marse.” Here Micajah scratched his head thoughtfully. “None er mine, ner none on dis side er de ribber, but er little nigger dat ain’ know me ’fore I git freedom—dat ain’ _see_ me work. An’ I wants dat little nigger ter foller me ever’whar I goes, er-totin’ er palm-leaf fan, an’ I wants him ter fan dese foots when I sets down er lays down, an’ I wants ter holler at him when he ain’ move fas’ ernough, an’ cuss him when he move too fas’, but I wants him ter keep er-foll’in’ wid de palm-leaf fan.” Micajah, from sheer ecstasy of contemplation, paused. “But I don’ wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse, lack Free Joe and Yaller Pete, ’case they hain’t nuffin but des niggers, ’douten er marster, errer home, ner nuffin; dey don’ eben know whar dey git dey nex’ sumpen ter eat fum; but I des wants ter taste freedom.” “Very well, Micajah; you shall begin to taste it at once, and I hope that it will do you good. You need not go to the field to-morrow, and you can pick out your little negro from over the river this afternoon. Cindy will give you my old broadcloth—you can roll up the legs and sleeves if they are too long—and I will not forget the book; and, mind, if anybody asks you to do a lick of work for a whole month, you send them to me.” * * * * *