Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Casa Bianca, April 16
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began to grow dusk I turned back. I repassed the
same slave village. Fires blazed in the little
houses, but all was more silent and still than
before. I saw a young negro with a good and handsome
countenance, standing thoughtfully under a
peach-tree, leaning against its bole. I accosted
him and began questioning him on various things.
Another slave came up, and then still another, and
the conversation with them was as follows:
“At what time do you get up in the morning?”
“Before sunrise.”
“When do you leave off in the evening?”
“When the sun sets—when it is dark.”
“But when do you get time to look after your
gardens?”
“We must do that on Sundays or at night,
although when we come home we are often so tired
that we could drop.”
“How do you get your dinners?”
“We have no dinner! We do well if, while we
are working, we can throw a bit of bread or some
corn into us.”
“But, my friend,” said I, now a little
mistrustful, “your appearance contradicts what you
say, for you look in very good condition, and quite
strong.”
“We endeavor to keep ourselves up as well as
we can,” replied the man by the tree; “what can
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