Exerting a strange ripe magic over him, the girl cried, "Yo' frighten me, Ballet, how yo' dey?"
"Too bad 'bout las' night," she said, in the low lulling tones of a West Indian servant girl, lifting not an eyebrow, and continuing to stir the thickening starch.
"An' me had me min' 'pon it so bad," the boy said, an intense gleam entering his eyes.
"So it dey," responded Blanche, "sometime it hav' obtusions, de neddah time de road are clear."
"Dat a fac'," the boy concurred sorrowfully, "it fatify de coza so dat a man can ha'dly sit down an' say 'well, me gwine do dis dis minute an' me gwine do dis dat, fo' de devil is jes' as smaht as de uddah man uptop."
"Up cose," said Blanche in her most refined manner, "Ah, fi' me notion is to tek de milk fom de cow when him are willin' fi' giv' it, wheddah it are in de mawnin' time or in de even' time—
"Wha' yo' are doin', Ballet, wait—let me put down de stick—wait, Ah say—yo' in a hurry?"
"Wha' Sweetbread, dey? Him gone t' wuk orready?"
"Yes—me don' know but it are seem to me lik' some time muss eclapse befo' dere is any life ah stir in dis kitchen—"