In the morning I went down to the smokehouse to inspect my captive. He was an insignificant looking fellow, and seemed very much frightened. I sent him down something to eat, and told him I was going have him taken to jail.
During breakfast I turned the matter over in my mind, and concluded that five years’ imprisonment would be a punishment rather disproportioned to the offence, and that perhaps two years in the penitentiary would be an equally effective warning.
One of my servants was going to town toward noon, with a load of grapes for shipment to the nearest market, and I wrote a note to the sheriff, Mr. Weems, requesting him to send a constable out to take charge of the thief. The ink was scarcely dry before it occurred to me that over-severity in the punishment of crime was often productive of harm, and had seldom resulted in any good, and that in all probability, taking everything into consideration, a year in jail in the neighborhood would be ample punishment, and a more impressive object-lesson than a longer term in the more distant penitentiary.
During the afternoon I learned, upon inquiry, that my captive had a large family and a sick wife; that because of a trifling disposition he was without steady employment, and therefore dependent upon odd jobs for a livelihood. But while these personal matters might be proper subjects of consideration for the humanitarian, I realized that any false sentiment on my part would be dangerous to social order; and that property must be protected, or soon there would be no incentive to industry and thrift. I determined that the thief should have at least six months in jail, if I had to support his family during his incarceration.
I was sitting on the front piazza, indulging in a quiet smoke during the hot part of the afternoon, just after having arrived at the final conclusion, when old Julius came around the house, and, touching his hat, asked at what time my wife wished the rockaway brought round for our afternoon drive.
“I hardly think we shall go today,” I replied, “until the constable has come and taken that thief to jail. By the way, Julius,” I added with some severity, “why is it that your people can’t let chickens alone?”
The old man shook his head sadly.
“It’s a myst’ry, suh,” he answered with a sigh, “dat ev’ybody doan understan’. Ef dey did, some un ’em mought make mo’ ’lowance.”
My wife came out of the house and took a seat in an armchair near me, behind the honeysuckle vine.
“I am asking Julius to explain,” I said, “why his people are so partial to chickens.”
“I think it unkind, John,” returned my wife, “to charge upon a whole race the sins of one worthless individual. There are thieves wherever there is portable property, and I don’t imagine colored people like chicken better than other people.”
Old Julius shook his head dissentingly. “I is bleedzd ter differ fum you dere, ma’m,” he said, with as much positiveness as he was capable of in conversation with white people; “cullud folks is mo’ fonder er chick’n ’n w’ite folks. Dey can’t he’p but be.”
“Why so?” I asked. “Is it in the blood?”
“You’s is hit it, suh, de fus’ sta’t-off. Yas, suh, dat is de fac’, tooby sho’, en no mistake erbout it.”
“Why, Uncle Julius!” exclaimed my wife with some show of indignation. “You ought to be ashamed to slander your race in that way.”
“I begs yo’ pardon, ma’m, ef it hu’ts yo’ feelin’s, but I ain’ findin’ no fault wid dem. Dey ain’ ’sponsible fer dey tas’e fer chick’n-meat. A w’ite man’s ter blame fer dat.”
“Well,” I said, “that statement is interesting. Sit down and tell us all about it.”
Julius took a seat on the top step, and laying his ragged straw hat beside him, began:
“Long yeahs befo’ de wah dey wuz a monst’us rich w’ite gent’eman, name’ Mars Donal’ McDonal’, w’at useter lib down on de yuther side er de Wim’l’ton Road. He hadn’ alluz be’n rich, fer w’en he fus’ come ter dis country he wuz po’, en he wukked fer a yeah er so as oberseah fer ernudder w’ite man, ’tel he had save’ money ’nuff ter buy one er two niggers, en den he rented a place on sheers, en bimeby he had bought a plantation en bought some mo’ niggers en raise’ some, ’tel he ’mence’ ter be so well-off dat folks mos’ fergot he had eber be’n a nigger-driber. He kep’ on gittin’ richer en richer, ’tel fin’lly he wuz one er de riches’ men in de county.
“But he wa’n’t sat’sfied. He had a neffy, name’ Tom, en Mars Donal’ had be’n lef’ gyardeen fer dis yer neffy er his’n, en he had manage’ so dat w’en young Mars Tom growed up dey wa’n’t nuffin at all lef’ er de fine proputty w’at young Mars Tom’s daddy had had w’en he died.
“Folks said Mars Donal’ had rob’ his neffy, but dey wa’n’t no way ter prove it. En mo’d’n dat, Mars Donal’ didn’ ’pear ter lak Mars Tom a-tall atter he growed up, en turnt ’im out in de worl’ ter shif’ fer hisse’f widout no money ner nuffin.
“Mars Tom had be’n co’tin’ fer lo! dese many yeahs his secon’ cousin, young Miss ’Liza M’Guire, who useter lib on de yuther side er de ribber, en young Mars Tom wanter ter marry Miss ’Liza monst’us bad. But w’en Mars Tom come er age, en Mars Donal’ say all his proputty done use’ up on his edication, Miss ’Liza’s daddy say he wouldn’ ’low her ter marry Mars Tom ’tel he make some money, er show her daddy
