One Sunday afternoon in early spring,—­the balmy spring of North Carolina, when the air is in that ideal balance between heat and cold where one wishes it could always remain,—­my wife and I were seated on the front piazza, she wearily but conscientiously ploughing through a missionary report, while I followed the impossible career of the blonde heroine of a rudimentary novel.  I had thrown the book aside in disgust, when I saw Julius coming through the yard, under the spreading elms, which were already in full leaf.  He wore his Sunday clothes, and advanced with a dignity of movement quite different from his week-day slouch.

“Have a seat, Julius,” I said, pointing to an empty rocking-chair.

“No, thanky, boss, I’ll des set here on de top step.”

“Oh, no, Uncle Julius,” exclaimed Annie, “take this chair.  You will find it much more comfortable.”

The old man grinned in appreciation of her solicitude, and seated himself somewhat awkwardly.

“Julius,” I remarked, “I am thinking of setting out scuppernong vines on that sand-hill where the three persimmon-trees are; and while I’m working there, I think I’ll plant watermelons between the vines, and get a little something to pay for my first year’s work.  The new railroad will be finished by the middle of summer, and I can ship the melons North, and get a good price for them.”

“Ef you er gwine ter hab any mo’ ploughin’ ter do,” replied Julius, “I ‘spec’ you’ll ha’ ter buy ernudder creetur, ’ca’se hit’s much ez dem hosses kin do ter ‘ten’ ter de wuk dey got now.”

“Yes, I had thought of that.  I think I’ll get a mule; a mule can do more work, and doesn’t require as much attention as a horse.”

“I would n’ ’vise you ter buy no mule,” remarked Julius, with a shake of his head.

“Why not?”

“Well, you may ‘low hit’s all foolis’ness, but ef I wuz in yo’ place, I would n’ buy no mule.”

“But that isn’t a reason; what objection have you to a mule?”

“Fac’ is,” continued the old man, in a serious tone, “I doan lack ter dribe a mule.  I ‘s alluz afeared I mought be imposin’ on some human creetur; eve’y time I cuts a mule wid a hick’ry, ‘pears ter me mos’ lackly I’s cuttin’ some er my own relations, er somebody e’se w’at can’t he’p deyse’ves.”

“What put such an absurd idea into your head?” I asked.

My question was followed by a short silence, during which Julius seemed engaged in a mental struggle.

“I dunno ez hit’s wuf w’ile ter tell you dis,” he said, at length.  “I doan ha’dly ‘spec’ fer you ter b’lieve it.  Does you ’member dat club-footed man w’at hilt de hoss fer you de yuther day w’en you was gittin’ out’n de rockaway down ter Mars Archie McMillan’s sto’?”

“Yes, I believe I do remember seeing a club-footed man there.”

“Did you eber see a club-footed nigger befo’ er sence?”

“No, I can’t remember that I ever saw a club-footed colored man,” I replied, after a moment’s reflection.