Part 8 (2/2)

Samb. I 'll kick yo, then!

Lucy. Ye may kill me, if ye choose; the sooner the better! Wish't I was dead!

Quimbo. I say, Sambo, you go to spilin' the hands I'll tell mas'r o' you.

Samb. And I 'll tell him ye won't let the women come to the mills, yo old n.i.g.g.e.r! Yo jes keep to yo own row.

Quim. [To UNCLE TOM, throwing down a bag.] Thar, yo n.i.g.g.e.r, grab! thar 's yer corn; ye won't git no more dis yer week.

Uncle T. [To a woman at the mill.] You 're tired; let me grind.

Woman. Deed, I is dat!

[UNCLE TOM grinds.] Woman. Wall, ye ground our meal, we 'll fix yer cake for ye; 'spects ye an't much used to it.

[Goes in. UNCLE TOM sits down by the fire to read the Bible. Women return and put the cakes at the fire.] 1st Woman. [To UNCLE TOM.] What 's dat ar?

Uncle T. The Bible.

1st Woman. Good Lor! ha'n't seen none since I 's in ole Kintuck!

Uncle T. Was ye rais'd in Kintuck?

1st Woman. Yes, and well raised too. Never expected to come to dis yer.

2d Woman. [Coming up.] What dat ar, anyway?

1st Woman. Why, dat ar 's the Bible.

2d Woman. Good Lor! what 's dat?

1st Woman. Do tell! you never hearn of it? I used to har missis a readin' on't sometimes, in Kintuck; but, laws o' me! we don't har nothin' here but crackin' and swarin'.

2d Woman. Read a piece, anyways!

Uncle T. [Reads.] ”Come unto ME, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

2d Woman. Them 's good words enough; who says 'em?

Uncle T. The Lord.

2d Woman. I jest wish I know'd whar to find Him; I would go. 'Pears like I never should get rested again. My flesh is fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every day, and Sambo's allers a jawin' a me, 'cause I does n't pick faster; and nights it 's most midnight 'fore I can get my supper; and then 'pears like I don't turn over and shut my eyes 'fore I hear de horn blow to get up and at it again in the mornin'. If I know'd whar de Lord was I 'd tell Him.

Uncle T. He 's here; he 's everywhere!

2d Woman. Lor! you an't gwine to make me believe dat ar! I know de Lord an't here; 't an't no use talking, though. I 's jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken.

Uncle T. [Solus.] O Lord G.o.d! Where are thou? Verily thou art a G.o.d that hidest thyself, O G.o.d of Israel, the Saviour! [Lies down to sleep.]

Music and Voice in the air. When thou pa.s.sest through the waters, I will be with thee, and the rivers they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee; for I am the Lord thy G.o.d, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.

SCENE III.--The Cotton-House and Scales. LEGREE, QUIMBO and SAMBO.

Sambo. Dat ar Tom 's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble; kept a puttin' into Lucy's basket. One o' these yer dat will get all der n.i.g.g.e.rs to feelin' 'bused, if mas'r don't watch him!

Legree. Hey-day! The black cuss! He 'll have to get a breakin' in, won't he, boys?

Quimbo. Ay, ay! let Mas'r Legree alone for breakin' in! De debil heself could n't beat mas'r at dat!

Leg. Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do, till he gets over his notions. Break him in!

Samb. Lord, mas'r 'll have hard work to get dat out o' him!

Leg. It 'll have to come out of him, though!

Samb. Now, dar 's Lucy; de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on de place!

Leg. Take care, Sam! I shall begin to think what 's the reason for your spite agin Lucy.

Samb. Well, mas'r knows she sot herself up agin mas'r, and would n't have me when he telled her to.

Leg. I 'd a flogged her into 't, only there 's such a press of work it don't seem wuth a while to upset her jist now. She 's slender; but these yer slender gals will bear half killin' to get their own way.

Samb. Wal, Lucy was reall aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round; would n't do nothin'--and Tom he tuck up for her.

Leg. He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging her. It 'll be a good practice for him, and he won't put it on to the gals like you devils, neither.

Samb. and Quim. Ho, ho! haw! haw! haw!

Samb. Wal, but, mas'r, Tom and Misse Ca.s.sy, and dey among 'em, filled Lucy's basket. I ruther guess der weight 's in it, mas'r!

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