“Atter he got ober his grievin’ spell he ’mence ter wonder w’at Mars Marrabo meant by callin’ ‘im yaller, an’ ez long ez nobody didn’ seem ter keer whuther dey seed ’im er not, he went down by de crick in broad daylight, an’ kneel down by de water an’ looked at his face.  Fus’ he didn’ reco’nize hisse’f an’ glanshed back ter see ef dey wa’n’t somebody lookin’ ober his shoulder—­but dey wa’n’t.  An’ w’en he looked back in de water he seed de same thing—­he wa’n’t black no mo’, but had turnt ter a light yaller.

“Ben didn’ knowed w’at ter make er it fer a minute er so.  Fus’ he ’lowed he must hab de yaller fever, er de yaller janders, er sump’n lak dat’!  But he had knowed rale dark folks ter hab janders befo’, and it hadn’t nebber ’fected ’em dat-a-way.  But bimeby he got up o’ff’n ‘is han’s an’ knees an’ wuz stan’in’ lookin’ ober de crick at de clay-bank, an’ wond’rin ef de clay he’d b’en eat’n’ hadn’ turnt ’im yaller w’en he heared sump’n say jes’ ez plain ez wo’ds.

“‘Turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay!’

“He looked all roun’, but he couldn’ see nobody but a big bullfrog settin’ on a log on de yuther side er de crick.  An’ w’en he turnt roun’ an’ sta’ted back in de woods, he heared de same thing behin’ ’im.

“‘Turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay!’

“Dem wo’ds kep’ ringin’ in ’is yeahs ’til he fin’lly ’lowed dey wuz boun’ ter be so, er e’se dey wouldn’ a b’en tol ter ‘im, an’ dat he had libbed on clay so long an’ had eat so much, dat he must ‘a’ jes nach’ly turnt ter clay!”

“Imperious Caesar, turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away,”

I murmured parenthentically.

“Yas, suh,” said the old man, “turnt ter clay.  But you’s mistook in de name, suh; hit wuz Ben, you ’member, not Caesar.  Ole Mars Marrabo did hab a nigger name’ Caesar, but dat wuz anudder one.”

“Don’t interrupt him, John,” said my wife impatiently.  “What happened then, Julius?”

“Well, po’ Ben didn’ know w’at ter do.  He had be’n lonesome ernuff befo’, but now he didn’ eben hab his own se’f ter ’so’ciate wid, fer he felt mo’ lak a stranger ‘n he did lak Ben.  In a day er so mo’ he ’mence ter wonder whuther he wuz libbin’ er not.  He had hearn ’bout folks turnin’ ter clay w’en dey wuz dead, an’ he ‘lowed maybe he wuz dead an’ didn’ knowed it, an’ dat wuz de reason w’y eve’body run erway f’m ’im an’ wouldn’ hab nuffin’ ter do wid ‘im.  An’ ennyhow, he ’lowed ef he wa’n’t dead, he mought’s well be.  He wande’ed roun’ a day er so mo’, an’ fin’lly de lonesomeness, an’ de sleepin’ out in de woods, ‘mongs’ de snakes an’ sco’pions, an’ not habbin’ nuffin’ fit ter eat, ’mence ter tell on him, mo’ an’ mo’, an’ he kep’ gittin’ weakah an’ weakah ’til one day, w’en he went down by de crick fer ter git a drink er water, he foun’ his limbs gittin’ so stiff hit ’uz all he could do ter crawl up on de bank an’ lay down in de sun.  He laid dere ’til he died,