A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

paw, 'ceptin' me an' Carline, an' Carline's liable to drop off mos'
anytime.”
“But who is going to live with her?”
“I spec she gwine git married some day,” Jimpson said hopefully, “all de
boys been plumb 'stracted 'bout dat chile since she wuz a little girl.
But she wuz so crazy 'bout her paw, she jes laff at 'em. Now de Cunnel's
gone, she'll hab to git somebody else to make ober.”
“Well, I must find out about that hill,” said Mrs. Sequin, turning for a
last glimpse. “Whose old place is this we are coming to?”
“Dis is our place, dis is Thornwood,” said Uncle Jimpson, half in pride,
half in apology, as he skirted the holes in the road. “It don't look lak
itself. It's a terrible pretty place when it's fixed up.”
“Dreadfully run down,” said Mrs. Sequin to herself, making a sweeping
survey of the premises, “all this front lawn ought to be terraced and
have granitoid walks and formal approaches. The house could be made
quite imposing.”
They had turned in the long winding avenue, and were following the old
gray wall that swept in a wide circle past the negro cabins, then toward
the house.
Suddenly Mrs. Sequin pointed dramatically to the little porch of one of
the cabins.
“A Sheraton! Great heavens! Where did it come from? What is it doing
there?”
Uncle Jimpson, following the direction of her finger, looked surprised:
“Dat ain't no sheraton, dat's a sideboard. Leastwise it wuz one 'fore
I fixed it into a chicken coop. I took out de drawers and put on dem
cross-pieces. Got forty de purtiest little chickens you eber seen!”
“And the legs are curved and have knobs, haven't they?”
“No, mam, dey ain't no more bow-legged dan most chickens. Do you raise
chickens on your place?”
“No, but we may when we get to the country. By the way, you don't happen
to know of a good colored man around here, do you? One who understands
horses, and would look well in livery?”
Uncle Jimpson's eyes set in their sockets. Old John and the rattling
buggy faded from his consciousness. In their place he saw himself on the
box seat of a grand Victoria, in a double-breasted coat and high hat,
lightly shaking the reins across the backs of two sleek thoroughbreds.
It was even more alluring than his cherished dream of butlerhood!
Already he felt his swelling chest strain against the gold buttons!
But what about Miss Lady? Who was going to stay at Thornwood and take
care of her? Domestic infelicities had rendered him callous to Aunt
Caroline's claims, but Miss Lady, his “little Missis”?
“No, mam,” he said dejectedly as he assisted Mrs. Sequin to alight. “I
can't say ez I do, not jes' at present. Sometime I might heah ob a good
man, say 'bout my size an' build. You, Mike!”
Mike had rushed at the small poodle with the apparent intention of
swallowing her at a mouthful, but at Uncle Jimpson's stern reproof he