Bob and I were home to spend the Christmas holidays. On the plantation was an Ethiopian Lothario, named Steve, and one evening in his cabin he asked me if I would write for him a letter to a mulatto girl who lived on a distant farm. "I want you," said he, "ter fling in jest ez much sweet pizen ez you kin, caze I lubs dat lady an' her head is monstus high. I yered de white preacher say sumfin dat he 'lowed wuz frum de dead language. An' kain't you lash in er little o' dat dead talk? I know it'll fetch her caze dat preacher's dead talk fotch me." "How do you know I can write?" I asked, for I had curbed the pedantic instinct of the negro blood within me and except to a few trusted friends had dropped no hint that I could even read. "Oh, I 'lowed dat ez smart er boy ez you gwine off ter school an' college wid his young marster oughter larn how ter do dat. Will you write de letter fur me?" I wrote him a screed that made his eyes snap when I read it to him. It was a mixture of cold Latin grammar and warm persuasion. "Ah, Lawd," he said as he sat, tallowing his Sunday shoes, "ef dat doan fetch her she ain't ter be fotch." He folded the letter, and when he had put it into his pocket he turned upon me. "Oh, yas, you goes off ter school an' l'arns dead talk an' de rest o' us hatter sweat in de fiel'. An' de fust thing we knows you'll be crossin' de Ohio riber ter make speeches 'mong dem 'litionists. I'm gwine tell Ole Miss." "What!" I cried, "after I have written a letter for you?" "Oh, I kain't hep de letter. Dat wuz er--wuz er matter o' fack. But it ain't er matter o' fack dat you'se been trying ter put yo-se'f up 'mong de white fo'ks, er turnin' up yo' nose at us caze you'se whiter an' got mo' dead talk den we has." "Steve," I pleaded, "please don't tell her. I couldn't help learning something, and I pledge you my word that I don't know much. Why, there are hundreds of negroes all about here that can read as well as I can and their masters think nothing of it." "Doan you fool yo'se'f 'bout dat, honey. Dar's er heap said erbout it. Da reads dem little flat books ter de uder niggers an' da gits whupped fur it, too. And de fust thing we knows you'll be readin' trouble on dis plan'ation. I'm gwine ter de house in de mornin' an' tell Ole Miss." "Yes, and if you do, I'll have you whipped. Young Master won't put up with such an interference with his affairs. I belong to him and not to Old Miss." "Ah, hah, but whut Ole Miss say comes mighty nigh bein' law sometimes. I'se had my eye on you fur er laung time, an' I'd like might'ly ter see you out yander in de fiel' er brilin' er laung side o' me."