“No, she aint eat a blessed thing, hardly, to-day,” said her mother—“jes' seemed to have lost her appetite from a to izzard.”
“I wish the store'd keep wild cherry bark and whiskey—somethin' to make us eat. We cyant work unless we can eat,” said Samantha, woefully.
“Great Scott,” said Jud, “what we want to do is to keep you folks from eatin' so much. Lem'me see,” he added after a pause, as if still thinking he'd get to the source of her trouble—“Yistidday was Sunday—you didn't have to work—now what did you eat for breakfast?”
“Nothin'—oh, I aint got no appetite at all”—whined Miss Samantha.
“Well, what did you eat—I wanter find out what ails you?”
“Well, lem'me see,” said Miss Samantha, counting on her fingers—“a biled mackrel, some fried bacon, two pones of corn bread—kinder forced it down.”
“Ur-huh—” said Jud, thoughtfully—“of course you had to drink, too.”
“Yes”—whined Miss Samantha woefully—“two glasses of buttermilk.”
Jud elevated his eyebrows “An' for dinner?”
“O, Lor'. Jes' cu'dn't eat nothin' fur dinner,” she wailed. “If the Company'd only get some cherry bark an' whiskey”—