Now do not doubt me--I
mean that very gentleman, whose polished manners and irreproachable
appearance might have led you to suppose him descended from a long line of
illustrious ancestors. Yes--he was the offspring of a mulatto field-hand by
her master. He who was now clothed in fine linen, had once rejoiced in a
tow shirt that scarcely covered his nakedness, and had sustained life on a
peck of corn a week, receiving the while kicks and curses from a tyrannical
overseer.
The death of his master had brought him to the auction-block, from which,
both he and his mother were sold to separate owners. There they took their
last embrace of each other--the mother tearless, but heart-broken--the boy
with all the wildest manifestations of grief.
His purchaser was a cotton broker from New Orleans, a warm-hearted, kind
old man, who took a fancy to the boy's looks, and pitied him for his
unfortunate separation from his mother. After paying for his new purchase,
he drew him aside, and said, in a kind tone, "Come, my little man, stop
crying; my boys never cry. If you behave yourself you shall have fine times
with me. Stop crying now, and come with me; I am going to buy you a new
suit of clothes."
"I don't want new clothes--I want my mammy," exclaimed the child, with a
fresh burst of grief.
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