I believe that Diada will be helpful in inspiring the missionary ladies of our church with a greater love for the dear heathen.
I have invited all the members of the society to my home to-morrow evening at eight o’clock to see Diada and have her reveal something of the customs of her native land. Will you not honor us with your presence—
The letter writing was interrupted by the entrance of Hopey and Diada—Hopey in the lead, puffing like a tugboat towing an ocean liner.
“Mis’ Mildred,” she began, “I’s jes’ ’bleeged to fotch dis here Whut-is-it up to yo’ room.”
“You refer to Diada?” Mrs. Gaitskill inquired sweetly, her love for the dear heathen enveloping her like a garment.
“Yes’m. Dis here Diader ain’t right in her haid. Down in de kitchen she hauled off and throwed one of my biscuit ag’in’ de wall an’ it stuck! She et a whole half a ham raw! She swiped de butcher knife right under my own eyes! She done ack powerful scandalous, an’ ef she potters aroun’ my kitchen I ain’t gwine cook!”
“She doesn’t know any better, Hopey,” Mrs. Gaitskill told her.
“Yes’m. An’ you cain’t tell her nothin’ because she’s plum’ deef ’n’ dum!”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Gaitskill smiled. “She can talk! Can’t you, Diada?”
Diada leaned over the writing desk, picked up a long, keen, pearl-handled paper knife and thrust it into the folds of her dress; but she did not utter a word.
“Gimme dat knife, Dummy!” Hopey yelled indignantly. “Whut you mean swipin’ ole mis’s pretties? You keep up dat gait an’ de white folks ’ll tie you to a tree an’ you won’t git nothin’ to eat fer a week, unless de woodpeckers feeds yer!”