At home,
by Gad, I could afford to spend the wuth of a staving field hand every
twenty-fouah houahs. I'll sweah!" cried Simp in conclusion, "I call this
hard."
"I suppose the Yankees have confiscated my stocks in the Havre
steamers," muttered Andy Plade. "I consider they have done me out of
twenty thousand dollars."
"Brotha writes to me, last lettah," continued Freckle, who had
recovered, "every tree cut off the plantation--every nigga run off, down
to old Sim, a hundred years old--every panel of fence toted away--no
bacon in smoke-house--not an old rip in stable--no corn, coon, possum,
rabbit, fox, dog or hog within ten miles of the place--house stands in a
mire--mire stands in desert--Yankee general going to conscrip brotha. I
save myself, sp'ose, for stahvation."
"Wait till you come down to my condition," faltered the proprietor,
making emphasis with his meagre finger--"I have been my own enemy; the
Yankees will but finish what is almost consummated now. I tell you,
boys, I expect to die in this room; I shall never quit this bed. I am
offensive, wasted, withered, and would look gladly upon Pere la
Chaise,[A] if with my bodily maladies my mind was not also diseased. I
have no fortitude; I am afraid of death!"
[Footnote A: The great Cemetery of Paris.
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