Part 2 (1/2)

_Orphy_. I know it's not right to notice strangers, and to be sure the man's welcome, but, Amy, did thee ever see anybody take victuals like this Yankee?

_Amy_. Yes, but he didn't eat all he took, for I saw him slip a great chunk of bread and cheese into his pocket, and then a big piece of pie, while he was talking and making us laugh.

_Orphy_. Well, I think a man must be very badly off to do such a thing.

I wonder he did not ask for victuals to take away with him. He need not have been afraid. He must know that victuals is no object. And then he has travelled the roads long enough to be sure that he can get a meal for nothing at any house he stops at, as all the tinmen do. He must have seen us looking at his eating so much, and may be his pride is hurt, and so he's made up his mind, all of a sudden, to take his meals no more at people's houses.

_Amy_. Then why can't he stop at a tavern, and pay for his victuals?

_Orphy_. May be he don't want to spend his money in that trifling way.

Who knows, he may be saving it up to help an old mother, or to buy back land, or something of that sort? I'll be bound he calculates upon eating nothing to-morrow but what he slipped off from our table.

_Amy_. All he took will not last him a day. It's a pity of him, anyhow.

_Orphy_. I wish he had not been too bashful to ask for victuals to take with him.

_Amy_. And still he did not strike me at all as a bashful man.

_Orphy_. Suppose we were just in a private way to put some victuals into his cart for him, without letting him know anything about it!

Let's hide it among the tins, and how glad he'll be when he finds it to-morrow!

_Amy_. So we will; that's an excellent notion! I never pitied anybody so much since the day the beggars came, which was five years ago last harvest; for I have kept count ever since; and I remember it as well as if it was yesterday.

_Orphy_. We don't know what a hard thing it is to want victuals, as the Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when he saw us emptying pans of milk into the pig-trough, and turning the cows into the orchard to eat the heaps of apples lying under the trees.

_Amy_. Yes, and it must be worse for an American to want victuals than for people from the old countries, who are used to it.

After they had finished their milking, and strained and put away their milk, the kind-hearted little girls proceeded to accomplish their benevolent purpose. They took from the large wire safe in the cellar a pie, half a loaf of bread, and a great piece of cheese, and putting them into a basket, they went to the barn-yard, intending to tell their mother as soon as the tinman was gone, and not for one moment doubting her approval--since in the house of an American farmer, victuals, as Orphy justly observed, are no object.

As they approached the barn-yard they saw, by the light of the moon, the Yankee coming away from his cart, and returning to the house. The girls crouched down behind the garden fence till he had pa.s.sed, and then cautiously proceeded on their errand. They went to the back of the cart, intending to deposit their provisions, when they were startled at seeing something evidently alive moving behind the round opening of the linen cover; and in a moment the head of a little black child peeped out of the hole.

The girls were so surprised that they stopped short and could not utter a word, and the young negro, evidently afraid of being seen, immediately popped down its head among the tins.

”Amy, did thee see that?” asked Orphy in a low voice.

”Yes, I did so,” replied Amy; ”what can the Yankee be doing with that little n.i.g.g.e.r? and why does he hide it? Let's go and ask the child.”

”No, no!” exclaimed Orphy, ”the tinman will be angry.”

”And who cares if he is?” said Amy; ”he has done something he is ashamed of, and we need not be afraid of him.”

They went quite close to the back of the cart, and Amy said, ”Here, little snow-ball, show thyself and speak, and do not be afraid, for n.o.body's going to hurt thee.”

”How did thee come into this cart?” asked Orphy, ”and why does the Yankee hide thee? Tell us all about it, and be sure not to speak above thy breath.”

The black child again peeped out of the hole, and looking cautiously round, said, ”Are you quite sure the naughty man won't hear us?”

”Quite sure,” answered Amy; ”but is thee boy or girl?”

”I'm a little gal,” replied the child; and with the characteristic volubility of her race she continued, ”and my name's Dinah, and I'm five years old, and my daddy and mammy are free coloured people, and they lives a big piece off, and daddy works out, and mammy sells gingerbread and mola.s.ses-beer, and we have a sign over the door with a bottle and cake on it.”