“And then with joy my heart goes crazy
And dances with the Michaelmas daisy?”
“Not mine!” Mrs. Wells shook her head and flourished the trowel.
“Oh,” he corrected himself, “your version should be,
“And then with anger my mind goes crazy
And trowels away at the Michaelmas daisy!
“It isn’t as smooth as one of Jawn’s, but the idea is sound.”
“Quite right,” agreed Mrs. Wells. “Michaelmas daisies are decent enough, like some of these black boys, when they know their proper places.”
The black boys “hyah-hyahed” at this tribute to their ambitious proclivities. “Saul there,” she went on, “is a black Michaelmas daisy”—Saul exploded with appreciative laughter—“he goes right into my refrigerator without so much as by-your-leave and helps himself to the best musk-melons. Some day I’ll have to take my trowel to him and let you boys wheel him off to the weed-fire.”
The darkies enjoyed this amiable attack on Saul’s weakness for musk-melon, but none more than the black culprit. The Virginia give and take between master and servant was strangely at home in these northern hills. Evidently, thought Richard, the transplanting of a hundred years ago had been done with expert skill; none of the southern flavour had been lost.