Mark Twain,
Pudd'nhead Wilson — Driscoll Spares His Slaves
(1894)
“ On frosty nights the humane Negro prowler would warm the end of the plank and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree; a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure —his liberty —he was not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the Last Great Day. ”
