' de hands about on de place
Used ter see dat de boy kep' fat.

Well, he trotted along down de parf dat night,
An' de Marster he seen him go,
An' hollered, "Say, boy--say, what 's yer name?"
"A--ashcake, suh," says Joe.

It 'peared ter tickle de Marster much,
An' he called him up to de do'.
"Well, dat is a curisome name," says he;
"But I guess it suits you, sho'."

"Whose son are you?" de Marster axed.
"Young Jane's," says Joe; "she 's daid."
A sperrit cudden 'a' growed mo' pale,
An', "By Gord!" I heerd him said.

He tuk de child 'long in de house,
Jes' 'count o' dat ar whim;
An', dat-time-out, you nuver see
Sich sto' as he sot by him.

An' Ashcake swung his cradle, too,
As clean as ever you see;
An' stuck as close ter ole Marster's heel
As de shader sticks to de tree.

'Twel one dark night, when de river was out,
De Marster an' Ashcake Joe
Was comin' home an' de skiff upsot,
An' bofe wo'd 'a' drowned, sho',

Excusin' dat Ashcake cotch'd ole Marst'r
An' gin him holt o' de boat,
An' saved him so; but 't was mo'n a week
B'fo' his body comed afloat.

An' de Marster buried dat nigger, suh,
In de white-folks' graveyard, sho!
An' he writ 'pon a white-folks' tombstone,
"Ashcake"--jes' "Ashcake" so.

An' de Marster he grieved so 'bouten dat thing,
It warn' long, suh, befo' he died;
An' he 's sleep, 'way down in Perginyer,
Not fur from young Ashcake's side.

ZEKYL'S INFIDELITY

Mistis, I r'al'y wish you 'd hole
A little conversation
Wid my old Zekyl 'bout his soul.
Dat nigger's sitiwation
Is mons'us serious, 'deed 'n' 't is,
'Skusin' he change dat co'se o' his.

Dat evil sinner 's sot he face
Ginst ev'y wud I know;
Br'er Gabrul say, he 's fell from grace,
An' Hell is got him sho'!

He don' believe in sperits,
'Skusin' 't is out a jug!
Say 'tain' got no mo' merits
Den a ole half-cured lug;
'N' dat white cat I see right late,
One evelin' nigh de grave-yard gate,
Warn't nuttin' sep some ole cat whar
Wuz sot on suppin' off old hyah.

He 'oont allow a rooster
By crowin' in folks' do',
Kin bring death dyah; and useter
Say, he wish mine would crow.
An' he even say, a hin mout try,
Sep woman-folks would git so spry,