"Hey," said April, taking it and leaning over the ripening sorrel, "hey, tek yo' old shillin' an' giv' me my goat."
Zink Diggs grew hysterical at her approach. "Don't come near mah," she said, her eyes rolling wildly. "Stan' whey yo' dey an' put de shillin' 'pon de groun'! Don' come near muh! An' tek yo' ole hungry goat along."
April took the goat and dropped the shilling on the ground.
"Yo' t'ink Oi gwine tek any'ting out o' yo' nasty hand'?" she said. "Yo' put um 'pon de ground." But before she picked it up she went in her bosom and drew out a little salt sack. She sprinkled two or three pinches of it on the coin before she picked it up.
The sun came out again. The crops bristled, the birds were singing. Triangles of birds, blackbirds and peewits, swarmed to the fragrant fruit, gave music to the wind. Hummingbirds—doctor birds—buzzed at the mouths of alluring red flowers.
April, a calico bag swung around her waist, picking the pigeon peas planted on the hedge facing Zink Diggs' land, sang hosannahs to the Lord....
An' Crown-un-un Him Lahd av ahl
As she went along husking them, shelling the peas, she was soon aware of some one burrowing in the nearby hedge, and whistling
Donkey wahn wahtah, hole 'im Joe
Donkey wahn wahtah, hole 'im Joe
Hole 'im Joe, hole 'im Joe,
Hole 'im Joe, don't let 'im go—
Donkey wahn de wahtah, hole 'im Joe.