“I ain’t no scholard an’ I don’t need no book,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed as he sat under the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“Mebbe so,” the glib-talking man beside him said; “but dis here ain’t no highbrow book. It tells all ’bout whut dreams means. Don’t you never dream nothin’?”
“Shore!” Skeeter exclaimed, clawing at a high, white collar which threatened to saw his head off. “Las’ night I dreamt dat I done died an’ went to de bad place.”
“Dar now!” his friend exclaimed, turning the pages of the book until he found the word “Hell.” “You listen to dis.” Then, with the utmost difficulty the darky read: “‘To dream of seein’ hell denotes dat de dreamer’s life is a bad one, an’ is an in-ti-ma-tion to him of re-for-ma-tion.’”
“My gosh!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Dat shore hit me right in de center of myse’f. How do dat book know?”
“I dunno,” the negro answered. “I s’pose it’s inspired. Anyways, it don’t never miss nothin’. Is you had any mo’ dreams recent?”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter said, with a frightened expression on his saddle-colored face. “Night befo’ las’ I dreamed dat I wus up in a balloom.”
“Us’ll see whut dat means,” his friend exclaimed, fumbling with the book. “Here it am: ‘Balloom—To dream of it shows dat you will engage in many chi-mer-i-cal plans.’”
“Engage in—which?” Skeeter demanded in a startled tone.
“Chi-mer-i-cal,” the negro repeated with difficulty. “Dat’s de kind it specify—Gawd knows whut dat means.”