“W’at dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down, Unc’ Pierson?” asked Betsy with amiable curiosity.
“You jis drap dat ‘uncle,’ you,” turning wrathfully upon the girl, “sence w’en you start dat new trick?”
“Lef de chile ’lone, Pierson, lef ’er alone. Come heah, Betsy, an’ set by yo’ Uncle Hiurm.”
From the encouraging nearness of Uncle Hiram, she ventured to ask “w’at you ’low dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down?” this time without adding the offensive title.
“Dey flyin’ ’roun’, Lord! dey hidin’ dey sef! dey gittin’ out o’ de way, I tell you. Grégor jis ben a raisin’ ole Cain in Centaville.”
“I know’d it; could a’ tole you dat mese’f. My Lan’! but dats a piece, dat Grégor,” Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter, seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole bearing announcing pleased anticipation.
“Dat boy neva did have no car’ fur de salvation o’ his soul,” groaned Uncle Hiram.
“W’at he ben a doin’ yonda?” demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently.
“Well,” said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the middle of the large kitchen, “he lef’ heah—w’at time he lef heah, Aunt B’lindy?”
“He done lef’ fo’ dinna, ’caze I seed ’im a lopin’ to’ads de riva, time I flung dat Sampson boy out o’ de doo’, bringin’ dem greens in heah ’dout washin’ of ’em.”