“Listen, Miss Jule,” said Matt, to Mrs. Parks, who had gone to the kitchen to see about dinner. “Dat big mouf Jerry can’t keep quiet.
“Hear ’im singin’ ’bout his honey?
“He rakes ’roun’ all night, an’ hollers all day ’bout his honey? He better be givin’ dat Runt somefin’, dat chile uv Mary’s.”
“Is that his child, Matt?”
“’Cose hit’s his’n.
“An’ he ain’t never as much as give it a moufful uv nothin’—no, not nary moufful!
“De po’ little chile des runs ’roun’ while Mary wuks, des lak it wuz er dog or hog. I ain’t never seed sich neglect. But Mary can’t hep it now; she’s gut to wuck fur er livin’.”
“Well, I didn’t know that Runt was Jerry’s child before.”
“Yon he is now!” exclaimed Matt, as she turned and looked out of the window, toward the hands, who were hoeing cotton in the Clay Field, back of the orchard.
“Yes’m, Mary’s des hoein’ an’ wuckin’ lak er dog, an’ keepin’ dat chile, while Jerry’s spendin’ money on dat yaller Rose whut come here wid dat nigger Rufus, who de pleesmens tuck back to town an’ put on de chain-gang fur stealin’ er cow.