WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the
widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads.
When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We
scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting
in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light
behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then
he says:
He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between
us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that
there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on
my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch;
and next my back, right between my shoul- ders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't
scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality,
or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy -- if you are
anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in
upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:
"Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know
what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin."
So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up
against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of
mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I
dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching
underneath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on
