We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of thewidow'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. Wescrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting inthe kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behindhim. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says: "Who dah?"He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right betweenus; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes thatthere warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on myankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; andnext my back, right between my shoulders. 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 afuneral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy-if you are anywheres whereit won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousandplaces. Pretty soon Jim says: "Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I knowwhat I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agi.