“Billy goats,” was Billy's answer without the slightest hesitation.
“You have goats on the brain,” she said in anger. “I did not read one word about billy goats.”
“Well, if 'taint a billy goat,” he replied, “I do' know what 'tis 'thout it's a skunk.”
“I bought you a little primer this morning,” she remarked after a short silence, “and I want you to say a lesson every day.”
“I already knows a lot,” he boasted. “Tabernicle, he 'an' Mercantile both been to school an' they learnt me an' Wilkes Booth Lincoln. I knows crooked S, an' broken back K, an' curly tail Q, an' roun' O, an' I can spell c-a-t cat, an' d-o-g dog an' A stands fer apple.”
That night he concluded his ever lengthy prayer at his kinswoman's knee with:
“O Lord, please make for Aunt Minerva a little baby, make her two of 'em. O Lord, if you got 'em to spare please make her three little babies an' let 'em all be girls so's she can learn 'em how to churn an' sew. An' bless Aunt Minerva and Major Minerva, f'r ever 'nd ever. Amen.”
As he rose from his knees he asked: “Aunt Minerva, do God work on Sunday?”
“No-o,” answered his relative, hesitatingly.
“Well, it look like He'd jest hafter work on Sunday, He's so busy jest a-makin' babies. He makes all the niggers an' heathens an' Injuns an' white chillens; I reckon He gits somebody to help him. Don't you, Aunt Minerva?”