ut in
his very slight dishabille, and proceeded to the front door, _set_, as his
mother would have said, on having his own way.

"Oh, mammy," he said, "dare's de banjo."

"What you doin here?" said Phillis. "Go long to bed this minute, 'fore I
take a switch to you."

"Oh, mammy," said the boy, regardless of the threat in his enthusiastic
state of mind, "jist listen, daddy's gwine to play 'Did you ever see the
devil?'"

"Will any body listen to the boy? If you don't go to bed"--

"Oh, mammy, _please_ lem me go. Dare's Jake, he's gwine to dance. Massa
said I'd beat Jake dancin one o' dese days."

"High," said Phillis; "where's the sore foot you had this morning?"

"Its done got well. It got well a little while ago, while I was asleep."

"Bound for you; go long," said Phillis.

Bacchus was about to go, without the slightest addition to his toilet.

"Come back here," said Phillis, "you real cornfield nigger; you goin there
naked?"

The boy turned back, and thrust his legs in a pair of pants, with twine for
suspenders. His motions were much delayed, by his nervous state of
agitation, the consequence of the music which was now going on in earnest.

He got off finally, not without a parting admonition from his mother.

"Look here," said she, "if you don't behave yourself, I'll skin you."

Allusion to this mysterious mode of punishment had the effect of sobering
the boy's mind in a very slight degree. No sooner was he out of his
mother's sight than his former vivacity returned.

His father, meanwhile, had turned down a barrel, and was seated on it.
Every attitude, every motion of his body, told that his soul, forgetful of
earth and earthly things, had withdrawn to the regions of sound. He kicked
his slippers off keeping time, and his head dodged about with every turn of
the quick tune. A stranger, not understanding the state of mind into which
a negro gets after playing "The devil among the tailors," would have
supposed he was afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. The mistake would soon
have been perceived, for two of the boys having tired themselves out with
manoeuvres of every kind, were obliged to sit down to get some breath,
and Bacchus fell into a sentimental mood, after a little tuning up.

It was uncertain in what strain he would finally go off. First came a bar
that sounded like Auld Lang Syne, then a note or two of Days of Absence,
then a turn of a Methodist hymn, at last he went decidedly into "Nelly was