The barbecue was roasting under the charge
of an experienced cook; the tables were arranged, and the speakers'
stand at the back of the school-house in the grove was in the hands
of the decorators. All was mirth and happiness. The freedmen were
about to offer oblations to liberty--a sacrifice of the first-fruits
of freedom.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A BLACK DEMOCRITUS.
"_I say_, Bre'er Nimbus!" cried a voice from the midst of a
group of those first arriving, "how yer do dis mornin'? Hope yer's
well, Squar', you an' all de family."
The speaker was a slender, loose-jointed young man, somewhat shabbily
attired, with a shapeless narrow-brimmed felt hat in his hand, who
was bowing and scraping with a mock solemnity to the dignitary of
Red Wing, while his eyes sparkled with fun and his comrades roared
at his comic gestures.
"Is dat you, Berry?" said Nimbus, turning, with a smile. "How yer
do, Berry? Glad ter see ye well," nodding familiarly to the others
and extending his hand.
"Thank ye, sah. You do me proud," said the jester, sidling towards
him and bowing to the crowd with serio-comic gravity. "Ladies an'
gemmen, yer jes takes notice, ef yer please, dat I ain't stuck
up--not a mite, I ain't, ef I _is_ pore. I'se not ashamed ter
shake hands wid Mr. Squar' Nimbus--Desmit--War'. I stan's by him
whatever his name, an' no matter how many he's got, ef it's more'n
he's got fingers an' toes.
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