My wife was apparently
without energy enough to speak for herself.
The old man did not seem inclined to go away, so I asked him to sit
down. I had noticed, as he came up, that he held some small object in
his hand. When he had taken his seat on the top step, he kept fingering
this object,--what it was I could not quite make out.
"What is that you have there, Julius?" I asked, with mild curiosity.
"Dis is my rabbit foot, suh."
This was at a time before this curious superstition had attained its
present jocular popularity among white people, and while I had heard of
it before, it had not yet outgrown the charm of novelty.
"What do you do with it?"
"I kyars it wid me fer luck, suh."
"Julius," I observed, half to him and half to my wife, "your people
will never rise in the world until they throw off these childish
superstitions and learn to live by the light of reason and common sense.
How absurd to imagine that the fore-foot of a poor dead rabbit, with
which he timorously felt his way along through a life surrounded by
snares and pitfalls, beset by enemies on every hand, can promote
happiness or success, or ward off failure or misfortune!"
"It is ridiculous," assented my wife, with faint interest.
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