“Tell me dis, Br’er Sawyer, befo’ you goes any fu’ther—do dis yere lodge of your’n fune’lize de daid?”
“To tell you de truth, Sista’, we ain’t quite got ’round to dat part yit,” confessed the orator. “Dey’s been so much else to do. But in due time we aims to ’range ’bout de sick benefits an’ de buryin’ fund an’ all dat.”
“Br’er Sawyer, bresh by,” commanded the sagacious Aunt Cilly. “Yo’ new lodge done lose its taste fur me already. I ’members whut happen’ to dat shiftless flight-haided Fanny Meriwether whut lived jest a little piece up dis same street. Yere two years ago she took an’ up an’ j’ined one of dese yere new-fangled lodges w’ich a strange nigger got up in dis town, same ez whut you’s aimin’ to do now. An’ dat lodge didn’t specify ’bout no buryin’ money, neither. Well, Fanny Meriwether hauled off one day an’ died widout ary cent of money laid by fur to fune’lize her. An’ whut wuz de upshot? W’y, she laid ’round de house daid fur goin’ on three days an’ den dat pore gal had to git to de cemetery de best way she could.”
§ 319 Who’s Who in Newark
Back in those old sinful wet days, two gentlemen, both far overtaken in alcoholic stimulant, were seen under a lamp-post on a street corner in Newark, clinging to each other for support.
As a spectator passed them he overheard the following dialogue carried on in somewhat fuzzy accents:
Said Souse Number One:
“Do you know Bill Talbot?”
Said Souse Number Two after a moment of reflection:
“No; whuzziz name?”