"Now play me my father's favorite song," she said.
They heard Mrs. Wren, the housekeeper, opening the windows in the upper
rooms of the mansion to let in the night air, which was stirring over the
valley with a delicious mountain chill on its wings. All around in the
trees and shrubbery the katydids were rasping away in immelodious statement
and denial of the ancient accusation.
Barnaby demurred. He did not imagine, so at least he said, that Miss
Phyllis would be pleased with the ballad that recently had been the
Colonel's chief musical delight; but he must obey the young lady, and so,
after some throat--clearing and string--tuning, he proceeded:
"I'd rudder be er niggah
Dan ter be er whi' man,
Dough the whi' man considdah
He se'f biggah;
But of yo' mus' be white, w'y be hones' of
yo' can,
An ac' es much es poss'ble like er niggah!
"De colah ob yo' skin
Hit don't constertoot no sin,
An' yo' fambly ain't er--
Cuttin' any figgah;
Min' w'at yo's er-doin', an' do de bes' yo' kin,
An' ac' es much es poss'ble like er niggah!"
The tune of this song was melody itself, brimming with that unkempt,
sarcastic humor which always strikes as if obliquely, and with a flurry of
tipsy fun, into one's ears.
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