He laid dere 'til he died, an' de sun
beat down on 'im, an' beat down on 'im, an' beat down on 'im, fer th'ee
er fo' days, 'til it baked 'im as ha'd as a brick. An' den a big win'
come erlong an' blowed a tree down, an' it fell on 'im an' smashed 'im
all ter pieces, an' groun' 'im ter powder. An' den a big rain come
erlong, an' washed 'im in de crick, 'an eber sence den de water in dat
crick's b'en jes' as yer sees it now. An dat wuz de een' er po' lonesome
Ben, an' dat's de reason w'y I knows dat clay'll make brick an' w'y I
doan nebber lak ter see no black folks eat'n it."
My wife came of a family of reformers, who could never contemplate an
evil without seeking an immediate remedy. When I decided that the bank
of edible clay was not fit for brickmaking, she asked me if I would not
have it carted away, suggesting at the same time that it could be used
to fill a low place in another part of the plantation.
"It would be too expensive," I said.
"Oh, no," she replied, "I don't think so. I have been talking with Uncle
Julius about it, and he says he has a nephew who is out of employment,
and who will take the contract for ten dollars, if you will furnish the
mule and cart, and board him while the job lasts.
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