The capitals were bad enough, but when we began the little letters, things got dreadfully mixed.
“Missus! this one no more ‘A’,” said Bett-Bett, worrying over small “a.”
I told her it was a little “a”; but she insisted that it wasn’t, and to prove it showed me big “A,” and of course they were not a bit alike. To try and make her understand a little better, I said that capital “A” was the mother, and little “a” the baby. This pleased her very much,
“Me savey,” she said, pointing from one to the other.
“This one mumma; this one piccaninny.” Then she wanted to know the baby’s name; what its mother called it. She said that piccaninnies always had different names to their mummas.
Of course I didn’t know the baby’s name, and told her so. Very often there was no answer to Bett-Bett’s questions; but somehow she always made me feel that it was my fault, or my ignorance, that there wasn’t. After this we said: “Mumma A and piccaninny belonga mumma A; mumma B and piccaninny belonga mumma B, and so on to the very end of the alphabet, till our tongues ached.
On the page Bett-Bett was learning from, every little letter was next to its mother. Little “a” next mumma “A,” and little “b” next mumma “B”; but in the reading lessons little letters were walking about by themselves. One day she noticed this when she was looking through the book.
“Look, Missus!” she cried, excitedly. “Piccaninny belonga mumma ‘A’ sit down by meself.” Then she scolded the little letter dreadfully, “You go home longa you mumma,” she said, in a loud, angry voice, shaking her finger at it. But small “a” never moved; it just sat and looked at her, and Bett-Bett told me it was “cheeky fellow longa me,” meaning it was not at all afraid of her. “My word! you badfellow alright,” she went on, scolding hard; “Debbil-debbil catch you dreckly.” As little “a” took no notice of this awful threat, she turned back to tell “mumma A” about its naughty piccaninny. There she found that the little letter had slipped home, and was sitting quietly at its mother’s knee. She was so pleased about it,
“Look, Missus,” she said, coming to show me; “him goodfellow now.”
“It’s a very good little letter,” I said, “and you’re a good little lubra, and may go and help to water the garden.”