MINERVA

all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s’I? Here sich ’n’ sich a person busted his heart; ’n’ here so ’n’ so pegged along for thirty-seven year, ’n’ all that—natcherl son o’ Louis somebody, ’n’ sich everlast’n rubbage. He’s plumb crazy, s’I; it’s what I says in the fust place, it’s what I says in the middle, ’n’ it’s what I says last ’n’ all the time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy ’s Nebokoodneezer, s’I.” “An’ look at that-air ladder made out’n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,” says old Mrs. Damrell; “what in the name o’ goodness _could_ he ever want of—” “The very words I was a-sayin’ no longer ago th’n this minute to Sister Utterback, ’n’ she’ll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; ’n’ s’I, yes, _look_ at it, s’I—what _could_ he a-wanted of it, s’I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—” “But how in the nation’d they ever _git_ that grindstone _in_ there, _any_way? ’n’ who dug that-air _hole?_ ’n’ who—” “My very _words_, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin’—pass that-air sasser o’ m’lasses, won’t ye?—I was a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how _did_ they git that grindstone in there, s’I. Without _help_, mind you—’thout _help! Thar’s_ wher ’tis. Don’t tell _me_, s’I; there _wuz_ help, s’I; ’n’ ther’ wuz a _plenty_ help, too, s’I; ther’s ben a _dozen_ a-helpin’ that nigger, ’n’ I lay I’d skin every last nigger on this place but _I’d_ find out who done it, s’I; ’n’ moreover, s’I—” “A _dozen_ says you!—_forty_ couldn’t a done every thing that’s been done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they’ve been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with ’m, a week’s work for six men; look at that nigger made out’n straw on the bed; and look at—” “You may _well_ say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist as I was a-sayin’ to Brer Phelps, his own self. S’e, what do _you_ think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s’e? Think o’ what, Brer Phelps, s’I? Think o’ that bed-leg sawed off that a way, s’e? _think_ of it, s’I? I lay it never sawed _itself_ off, s’I—somebody _sawed_ it, s’I; that’s my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn’t be no ’count, s’I, but sich as ’t is, it’s my opinion, s’I, ’n’ if any body k’n start a better one, s’I, let him _do_ it, s’I, that’s all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s’I—” “Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o’ niggers in there every night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt—every last inch of it kivered over with secret African writ’n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv ’m at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I’d give two dollars to have it read to me; ’n’ as for the niggers that wrote it, I ’low I’d take ’n’ lash ’m t’ll—” “People to _help_ him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you’d _think_ so if you’d a been in this house for a while back. Why, they’ve stole everything they could lay their hands on—and we a-watching all the time, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o’ the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther’ ain’t no telling how many times they _didn’t_ steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day _and_ night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides rig