De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul.
“Fo’ gates on de no’f, fo’ gates on de souf,
An’ yo’ ken enter in at enny gate.
I-n-n-e-r my s-o-u-l, i-n-n-e-r my s-o-u-l,
De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul.
“In er my s—o—u—l——!”
“Margaret,” said Mr. De Vere, “is supper nearly ready? We are almost starved.”
“Law me, Massa John, been waiten’ dis bressed ouah,” she replied, bustling into the dining-room.
“What is your honest opinion of a blizzard, Margaret?” Mr. De Vere asked a few minutes later, as she appeared at the table with a platter of hash.