"Gawge Chadwick came home yestiddy," announced Uncle Billy.
"Sho now!" exclaimed Mammy. "Not lame Jintsey's boy! You don't mean it!"
"That's the ve'y one," persisted Uncle Billy. "Gawge Washington
Chadwick. He's a ministah of the gospel now, home from college with a
Rev'und befo' his name, an' a long-tailed black coat on. He doesn't look
much like the little pickaninny that b'long to Mars' Nat back in wah
times."
"And Jintsey's dead, poah thing!" exclaimed Aunt Susan. "What a day it
would have been for her, if she could have lived to see her boy in the
pulpit!"
Conversation never kept on a straight road when these three were
together. It was continually turning back by countless by-paths to the
old slavery days. The rule of their master, Nat Chadwick, had been an
easy one. There had always been plenty in the smoke-house and
contentment in the quarters. These simple old souls, while rejoicing in
their freedom, often looked tenderly back to the flesh-pots of their
early Egypt.
John Jay had heard these reminiscences dozens of times.
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