“At dinner,” said Mrs Carewe, stroking her chin—“we had some sour-kraut—she eat right pe'rtly of that—kinder seemed lak a appetizer to her. She mixed it with biled cabbage an' et right pe'rtly of it.”
“An' some mo' buttermilk—it kinder cools my stomach,” whined Miss Samantha. “An' hog-jowl, an' corn-bread—anything else Maw?”
“A raw onion in vinegar,” said her mother—“It's the only thing that seems to make you want to eat a little. An' reddishes—we had some new reddishes fur dinner—didn't we, Samanthy?”
“Good Lord,” snapped Jud—“reddishes an' buttermilk—no wonder you needed that weight on your stomach—it's all that kept you from floatin' in the air. Cyant eat—O good Lord!”
They were silent—Miss Samantha making wry faces with her pain.
“Of course you didn't eat no supper?” he asked.
“No—we don' eat no supper Sunday night,” said Mrs. Carewe.
“Didn't eat none at all,” asked Jud—“not even a little?”
“Well, 'bout nine o'clock I thought I'd eat a little, to keep me from gittin' hungry befo' day, so I et a raw onion, an' some black walnuts, and dried prunes, an'—an'—”
“A few apples we had in the cellar,” added her mother, “an' a huckleberry pie, an' buttermilk—”