“My good gosh!” Skeeter howled, glaring indignantly at the youngster and his mother. “De ole she-bear an’ de cub bofe at it now! Whut you wanter wish all dis Gulf of Mex’co full of tears onto me fer? I’s gwine build me a Noer’s ark!”
Whiffle promptly forgot her tears in an effort to assuage the grief of her son.
“Po’ little pickaninny—mammy’s little darlin’!” she crooned, as she lifted him upon her lap. “You want mammy to sing you a song? Listen, honey, shet yo’ eyes an’ shet yo’ mouf, an’ cock yo’ ears an’ listen!”
The tears were glistening upon her wet cheeks, as she drew the little boy close to her and crooned:
“De black pot’s bigger dan a fryin’ pan,
An’ upon dis groun’ I takes my stan’—
I’d druther be a nigger dan a po’ white man!”
“Huh!” Skeeter Butts murmured to himself as he watched the woman and her child. “I wonder do she really love dat kid, or is she huggin’ him jes’ to spite Shin Bone? I never knowed who my mammy or daddy wus, an’ I don’t got no way to find out.”
As the woman sang, she looked off across the spaces, focusing her tear-wet eyes upon the purple haze which hung above the Little Moccasin Swamp. In a moment, the whimpering of the baby ceased, and his tired head rested in sleep upon his young mother’s ample bosom. After a while Whiffle reverted to her trouble with her husband.
“I been keepin’ all de money sence we wus married, Skeeter, so when me an’ Shin quit I jes’ tied up de loose change in a stockin’-toe an’ fotch it away wid me. Dat leaves Shin de eatin’-house an’ de hoss an’ wagin.”
“I figger dat wus fair,” Skeeter replied in an earnest desire to be propitiatory and prevent any more tears.
“Whut I come to see you ’bout is dis, Skeeter: who do dis little pickaninny b’long to?” and as she spoke, Whiffle hugged the little boy closer to her and gazed down fondly on his tear-marked face.