“Me isn’t a notty, notty b’y, Jeppie. Me is a yittle ’orse, an’ ’ese are ’e yittle ’orse’s ley bells.”
“Sleigh bells! Didn’t you know any better than to pull up all of Joe’s cantaloupes and string them on to threads—how you could do it I can’t imagine—to hang around your shoulders?”
“Dey isn’t ’antelopes, Jeppie; dey’s ley bells.”
“How did you do it? Oh, you naughty—”
“Me did it wiv Doe’s little knife an’ Doe’s needle an’ t’read; an’ me hurted me’s han’s, me did.”
The recollection gave him the excuse that he was longing for. The string to one of his odd sets of sleigh-bells broke as he started across the room, with outstretched arms, for Joe, and he left a trail of small, hard, green melons as he ran. “Doe!” he cried, as the old man lifted him tenderly to his breast, “me hurted me han’s!” The howl of anguish with which he repeated the statement was partially smothered by reason of the sufferer’s face being buried in Joe’s neck. “Jeppie say me is notty, notty b’y!” he continued, sobbing.
“Miss Jessie,” the old man said, with dignity, looking disapprovingly at his young mistress over the boy’s shaking shoulders, “yo’ means well, honey; I ain’ a doubtin’ ob dat, but yo’ done got er heap ter learn ’bout managin’ chillen. Yo’s done hurted pore little Ralph’s feelin’s mighty bad!”
“His feelings ought to be hurt!” Jessie persisted, indignantly. “A boy who is old enough to do such a piece of mischief as that is old enough to know better. And, Joe, it isn’t right for you to encourage him in it.”
“Honey, hit ain’ likely, now, is hit, dat any one has dish yer pore little feller’s good more at heart dan I has, now is hit?”
“No, Joe, it isn’t.”