No one could behold that mother with her helpless babe,
without feeling that God would punish the oppressor.
There she sat, with an expressive and intellectual forehead,
and a countenance full of dignity and heroism, her dark
golden locks rolled back from her almost snow-white forehead
and floating over her swelling bosom. The tears that stood
in her mild blue eyes showed that she was brooding over sorrows
and wrongs that filled her bleeding heart.
The hearts of the passers-by grew softer, while gazing upon
that young mother as she pressed sweet kisses on the sad,
smiling lips of the infant that lay in her lap.
The small, dimpled hands of the innocent creature were slyly
hid in the warm bosom on which the little one nestled.
The blood of some proud Southerner, no doubt, flowed through
the veins of that child.
When the boat arrived at Natches, a rather good-looking,
genteel-appearing man came on board to purchase a servant.
This individual introduced himself to Jennings as the Rev. James Wilson.
The slave-trader conducted the preacher to the deck-cabin, where he kept
his slaves, and the man of God, after having some questions answered,
selected Agnes as the one best suited to his service.
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