Not a single cloud floated over the blue vault of heaven; not a breath of wind seemed moving, and the earth was parched by the broiling sun.

Even the bees had stopped humming, and the butterflies had hid themselves under the broad leaves of the burdock.

Without a morsel of dinner, the poor child was put in the garden, and set to weeding it, her arms, neck, and head completely bare.

Unaccustomed to toil, Clotelle wept as she exerted herself in pulling up the weeds.

Old Dinah, the cook, was a unfeeling as her mistress, and she was pleased to see the child made to work in the hot sun.
"Dat white nigger'll soon be brack enuff if missis keeps her workin' out dar," she said, as she wiped the perspiration from her sooty brow.
Dinah was the mother of thirteen children, all of whom bad been taken from her when young; and this, no doubt, did much to harden her feelings, and make her hate all white persons.
The burning sun poured its rays on the face of the friendless child until she sank down in the corner of the garden, and was actually broiled to sleep.
"Dat little nigger ain't workin' a bit, missus," said Dinah to Mrs.
Miller, as the latter entered the kitchen.
"She's lying in the sun seasoning; she will work the better by and by," replied the mistress.
"Dese white niggers always tink dey seff good as white folks," said the cook.
"Yes; but we will teach them better, won't we, Dinah ?" rejoined Mrs.
Miller.
"Yes, missus," replied Dinah; "I don't like dese merlatter niggers, no how.