At fus’ I tho’t hit wuz uh owl, but coon dogs don’ tree owls, An’ Traveler wuz too skeer’d ter bark, ’twuz jes’ uh stream ub howls; So den I look up in de tree, an’ settin’ ’pon uh lim’, Wuz uh cunnin’ leetle niggah, sorter hummin’ ub uh hymn. I saw ’twuz leetle Ezzy feedin’ on dem ’simmons ripe— De night befo’ he’d tole “De composation ub de snipe;” He al’ays spressify hissef in sech uh cutesome way Dat ev’ybody lubbed him, an’ bleebe what Billy say. So I didn’ wan’ ter ’stress him, but meck bleebe I did, An’ said, “Fum Caesar’s quarters hencefof you is fuhbid;” An’ den dat leetle roscal say he didn’ cuh fuh me, “Dese is Mars Pinckney’s ’simmons, an’ Mars Pinckney’s ’simmon tree.” I tole him ef’n I had uh ax I’d cut de fruit tree down, An’ ef he fell an’ breck he neck when he struck on de groun’ Hit wouldn’ ’stress me any, kase you t’ink yo’sef so wise, An’ you de sort ub niggah dat de Babtis’ chuch dispise. “DEM DAYS.” “Is this Uncle Stephen Demby?” “Yas, honey; dat’s meh name! I jes’ got in fum crabbin’. Lemmy put meh paddles un’er de house ter keep dese carelessom’ gre’t-gran’chillun ub mine fum fin’in’ ’em. Dem two gals, Marfy an’ Muhtilda, out da in de watah sorf crabbin’ is meh gran’chillun. An’ jes’ look at dem two boys er ridin’ dat cow ub Mars Pinckney’s; dem is meh gre’t-gran’chillun, an’ dey monstus bad. (Ef’n you don’ git of’n dat cow I’ll whup you till da ain’ no bref in you!) Dar’s three ub dem boys, an’ dey name Stephen, Saul an’ Bonypart, an’ like ez not de one name Bonypart is ridin’ dat cow’s calf. Deah gre’t-gran’mammy gibs ’em too much cawn bred, an’ hit natchelly puts noshuns in deah haids.” “Do you live here?” “Yas’um; but de road don’ go no fudder. You’r sho’ly on de rong road, chile; dat’s de road ter de Royal Oak, an’ de road you on is wha dey bin haulin’ oyster shells, ter fix de road you lef’.” [Illustration: Dem two gals, Marthy an’ Muhtilda, out da in de watah sorf crabbin’ is meh gran’chillun. ] “Uncle Stephen, I know exactly where I am, and I have come to see you, and want you to tell me all about Talbot County before the war, so that I can put it in my magazine.” “Well, bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul. Heh! heh! heh! Jes’ speckin’, I reckon, futto see Mars Pinckney ’roun’ heah; I’m sho’ he bin meckin’ ’mirations at yer. Uh foxhoun’ don’ lub uh fox hunt mo’ dan de ladies ’roun’ heah lub Mars Pinckney, an’ I heah Mars John Charles Tilghman say ter ole Mars Nickey, ‘He is ez hainsome ez de son ub King Dabid-Ab-so-lum, dat got kilt by uh mule.’ Mules wuz ornry in dem days. Now, how you gwine ter put Talbot County in yo’ mag’zine? You jes’ tezin’ po’ ole Stephen. You see I’s al’ays libbed wid de qual’ty, an’ ain’ easy ter fool. Now, you sho’ly ain’ got uh mag’zine?” “Indeed I have, dear Uncle Stephen.”