rise and carry away the person who had stolen the contents of her pot; but if the thief would but confess the offence she engaged that no harm should happen, as she only wanted to exculpate the innocent, and not punish the guilty. One and all denied the charge, and several crossed the river without fear or danger; but upon the approach of a belly-woman to the bank she was observed to hesitate. 'My neger, my neger,' said Mammy Luna, 'why you stop? me tink you savee well who thief me?' This accusation spirited up the woman, who instantly marched into the river, singing as she went (and the woman's part is always chanted, frequently in chorus, which the negroes call, 'taking up the sing'),
'If da me eat Mammy Luna's pease—O,
Drowny me, water, drowny, drowny!'
'My neger, my neger,' cried the old woman, 'me sure now you the thief! me see the water wet you feet. Come back, my neger, come back.' Still on went the woman, and still continued her song of 'If da me eat Mammy Luna's perse,' &c.
'My neger, my neger,' repeated Mammy Luna, 'me no want punish you; my pot smell good, and you belly-woman. Come back, my neger, come back; me see now water above your knee!' But the woman was obstinate; she continued to sing and to advance, till she reached the middle of the river's bed, when down came a tremendous flood, swept her away, and she never was heard of more; while Mammy Luna warned the other negroes never to take the property of another; always to tell the truth; and, at least, if they should be betrayed into telling a lie, not to persist in it, otherwise they must expect to perish like their companion."
Lewis adds that "a moral is always an indispensable part of a Nancy story," and he then relates the following one:—"Two sisters had always lived together on the best terms; but on the death of one of them the other treated very harshly a little niece who had been left to her care, and made her a common drudge to herself and her daughter. One day the child having broken a water-jug, was turned out of the house, and ordered not to return till she could bring back as good a one. As she was going along, weeping, she came to a large cotton-tree, under which was sitting an old woman without a head. I suppose this unexpected sight made her gaze rather too earnestly, for the old woman immediately inquired, 'Well, my piccaniny, what you see?'
