'Sistuh, you mus' git a rastle in doo time,
B'fo de hevumly do's cloze--iz!'"

It was the voice of an aged negro; and the simultaneous slight creaking
of a small hub and axle seemed to indicate that he was pushing or
pulling a child's wagon or perambulator up and down the walk from the
kitchen door to the stable. Whiles, he proffered soothing music: over
and over he repeated the chant, though with variations; encountering in
turn his brother, his daughter, each of his parents, his uncle, his
cousin, and his second-cousin, one after the other ascending the same
slope with the same perilous leisure.

"Lay still, honey." He interrupted his injunctions to the second-cousin.
"Des keep on a-nappin' an' a-breavin' de f'esh air. Dass wha's go' mek
you good an' well agin."

Then there spoke the strangest voice that ever fell upon my ear; it was
not like a child's, neither was it like a very old person's voice; it
might have been a grasshopper's, it was so thin and little, and made of
such tiny wavers and quavers and creakings.

"I--want--" said this elfin voice, "I--want--Bill--Hammersley!"

The shabby phaeton which had passed my cousin's house was drawing up to
the curb near Beasley's gate. Evidently the old negro saw it.

"Hi dar!" he exclaimed. "Look at dat! Hain' Bill a comin' yonnah des
edzacly on de dot an' to de vey spot an' instink when you 'quiah fo'
'im, honey? Dar come Mist' Dave, right on de minute, an' you kin bet yo'
las hunnud dollahs he got dat Bill Hammersley wif 'im! Come along,