ed convulsively as I asked these questions.

"We-all des pick 'im up, suh. Yes, suh; we-all des pick 'im up. Ain' you
year talk 'bout dat, suh? I dunner whar you bin at ef you ain' never is
year talk 'bout dat. He de fus' w'ite man w'at I ever pick up, suh. Yes,
suh; de ve'y fus' one."

"I don't understand you," said I; "tell me about it."

At this Aunt Fountain laughed long and loudly. She evidently enjoyed my
ignorance keenly.

"De Lord know I oughtn' be laughin' like dis. I ain' laugh so hearty
sence I wuz little gal mos', en dat wuz de time w'en Marse Rowan
Tomlinson come 'long en ax me my name. I tell 'im, I did: 'I'm name
Flew Ellen, suh.' Marse Rowan he deaf ez any dead hoss. He 'low: 'Hey?'
I say: 'I'm name Flew Ellen, suh.' Marse Rowan say: 'Fountain! Huh! he
quare name.' I holler en laugh, en w'en de folks ax me w'at I hollerin'
'bout, I tell um dat Marse Rowan say I'm name Fountain. Well, suh, fum
dat day down ter dis, stedder Flew Ellen, I'm bin name Fountain. I laugh
hearty den en my name got change, en I feared ef I laugh now de hoss'll
run away en turn de buggy upperside down right spang on top er me."

"But about this Mr. Trunion?" said I.

"Name er de Lord!" exclaimed Aunt Fountain, "ain' you never is bin year
'bout dat? You bin mighty fur ways, suh, kaze we all bin knowin' 'bout
it fum de jump."

"No doubt. Now tell me about it."

Aunt Fountain shook her head, and her face assumed a serious expression.

"I dunno 'bout dat, suh. I year tell dat niggers ain' got no business
fer go talkin' 'bout fambly doin's. Yit dar wuz yo' gran-mammy. My
mistiss sot lots by her, en you been bornded right yer 'long wid um. I
don't speck it'll be gwine so mighty fur out'n de fambly ef I tell you
'bout it."

I made no attempt to coax Aunt Fountain to tell me about Trunion, for I
knew it would be difficult to bribe her not to talk about him. She
waited a while, evidently to tease my curiosity; but as I betrayed none,
and even made an effort to talk about something else, she began:

"Well, suh, you ax me 'bout Marse Fess Trunion. I know you bleeze ter
like dat man. He ain' b'long ter we-all folks, no furder dan he my young
mistiss ole man, but dee ain' no finer w'ite man dan him. No, suh; dee
ain'. I tell you dat p'intedly. De niggers, dee say he mighty close en
pinchin', but deze is mighty pinchin' times--you know dat yo'se'f, suh.
Ef a man don' fa'rly fling 'way he money, dem Tomlinson niggers, dee'll
say he