"Uncle Levi, these are sad times now," she said. "I am looking for
something for mamma's supper and I can find nothing."
The old negro, shabbier, lonelier, poorer than ever, shambled up to the
wall where she was standing and uncovered a split basket full of eggs.
"I'se got a pa'cel er hens hid in de woods over yonder," he explained, "en
I keep de eggs behin' de j'ists in my cabin. Sis Floretty she tole me dat
de w'ite folks wuz wuss off den de niggers now, so I brung you dese."
"Oh, Uncle Levi!" cried Betty, seizing his gnarled old hands. As she looked
at his stricken figure a compassion as acute as pain brought the quick
tears to her eyes. She remembered the isolation of his life, the scornful
suspicion he had met from white and black, and the injustice that had set
him free and sold Sarindy up the river.
"You wuz moughty good ter me," muttered free Levi, shuffling his bare feet
in the long grass, "en Marse Dan, he wuz moughty good ter me, too, 'fo' he
went away on dat black night. I 'members de time w'en dat ole Rainy-day
Jones up de big road (we all call him Rainy-day caze he looked so sour) had
me right by de collar wid de hick'ry branch a sizzlin' in de a'r, en I des
'lowed de een had mos' come. Yes, Lawd, I did, but I warn' countin' on
Marse Dan. He warn' mo'n wais' high ter ole Rainy-day, but de furs' thing I
know dar wuz ole Rainy-day on de yerth wid Marse Dan a-lashin' 'im wid de
branch er hick'ry.
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