"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah--whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole." "Seventy-two, Uncle Mose." "Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? she was one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died." "No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died." "Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f." Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen." _THE NEGRO BABY'S FUNERAL._ I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn; And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild; On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child. I could picture him when living--curly hair, protruding lip-- And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip. But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath; And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound Than was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners round. Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk-- With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque; With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face; With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race. And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay-- For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away! He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love; But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.