“All dat time, I hear Marse Tumlin talkin’ ter Miss Vallie ’bout what he call his wil’ lan’. He say he got two thousan’ acres down dar in de wire-grass, an’ ef he kin sell it, he be mighty glad ter do so. Well, suh, one day, long to’rds night, a two-hoss waggin driv’ in at de side gate an’ come in de back-yard. Ol’ Ben Sadler wuz drivin’, an’ he ’low, ‘Heyo, Minervy Ann, whar you want deze goods drapped at?’ I say, ‘Hello yo’se’f, ef you wanter hello. What you got dar, an’ who do it b’long ter?’ He ’low, ‘Hit’s goods fer Major Tumlin Perdue, an’ whar does you want um drapped at?’ Well, suh, I ain’t know what ter say, but I run’d an’ ax’d Miss Vallie, an’ she say put um out anywheres ’roun’ dar, kaze she dunner nothin’ ’bout um. So ol’ Ben Sadler, he put um out, an’ when I come ter look at um, dey wuz a bairl er sump’n, an’ a kaig er sump’n, an’ a box er sump’n. De bairl shuck like it mought be ’lasses, an’ de kaig shuck like it mought be dram, an’ de box hefted like it mought be terbarker. An’, sho’ ’nuff, dat what dey wuz—a bairl er sorghum syr’p, an’ a kaig er peach brandy, an’ a box er plug terbarker. [Illustration: “Here come a nigger boy leadin’ a bob-tail hoss.”] “I say right den, an’ Miss Vallie’ll tell you de same, dat Marse Tumlin done gone an’ swap off all his wil’ lan’, but Miss Vallie, she say no; he won’t never think er sech a thing; but, bless yo’ soul, suh, she wan’t nothin’ but a school-gal, you may say, an’ she ain’t know no mo’ ’bout men folks dan what a weasel do. An den, right ’pon top er dat, here come a nigger boy leadin’ a bob-tail hoss. When I see dat, I dez good ez know’d dat de wil’ lan’ done been swap off, bekaze Marse Tumlin ain’t got nothin’ fer ter buy all dem things wid, an’ I tell you right now, suh, I wuz rank mad, kaze what we want wid any ol’ bob-tail hoss? De sorghum mought do, an’ de dram kin be put up wid, an’ de terbarker got some comfort in it, but what de name er goodness we gwine ter do wid dat ol’ hoss, when we ain’t got hardly ’nuff vittles fer ter feed ourse’f wid? Dat what I ax Miss Vallie, an’ she say right pine-blank she dunno. “Well, suh, it’s de Lord’s trufe, I wuz dat mad I dunner what I say, an’ I want keerin’ nudder, bekaze I know how we had ter pinch an’ squeeze fer ter git ’long in dis house. But I went ’bout gittin’ supper, an’ bimeby, Hamp, he come, an’ I tol’ ’im ’bout de ol’ bob-tail hoss, an’ he went out an’ look at ’im. Atter while, here he come back laughin’. I say, ‘You well ter laugh at dat ol’ hoss.’ He ’low, ‘I ain’t laughin’ at de hoss. I’m laughin’ at you. Gal, dat de finest hoss what ever put foot on de groun’ in dis town. Dat’s Marse Paul Conant’s trottin’ hoss. He’ll fetch fi’ hunder’d dollars any day. What he doin’ here?’ I up an’ tol’ ’im all I know’d, an’ he shuck his head; he ’low, ‘Gal, you lay low. Dey’s sump’n n’er behime all dat.’