"I—I want—my—my—my mama!"
"You can't have your mama now. She isn't here."
"But—I—want my mama!"
"Philip, didn't you hear me say your mama was not here?" Mr. De Jarnette spoke rather sternly. Then, with full confidence in his nephew's reasoning powers, he proceeded to explain that his mama was in the city, miles and miles away from here—that even if he could see her in the morning it would be impossible to do it to-night—that if he was a good little boy, maybe—
There is no telling what imprudence he might have been led into by his desire for peace, but at this juncture Philip, who had been quieted for a while by the strangeness of a masculine voice, broke out afresh:
"I want—my ma-a-ma!"
"He's answerin' yo' argyments the same way he did mine, Marse Richard. The color of 'em don't 'pear to make no diff'unce."
It didn't indeed. However forcible and logical was Mr. De Jarnette's line of reasoning, however convincing it seemed temporarily, no sooner was it ended than Philip, with a child's insistent iteration, made reply:
"You git a chile in that frame of mind," moralized Mammy Cely, "and hits reasonin' powers is mighty weak. Jes' as well try to argue with a dose of ipecac after it's down."