“A cold is yah? Well, ef I be bressed wid strength an’ ef dey is peachy trees ’nough in de orchard, an’ de fence corners, I’ll wa’m yah. You dat has sceert me intah fits, an’ made me tell all dem lies—dem on Mis’s—dat I jes’ knows I never ken git fahgivin’ fo’ ’em.” And, still holding him, she began striding toward the kitchen door.
“Judy!” called her mistress sternly, “Judy, put down that child this minute! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Instead of being thankful that he wasn’t killed, here you stand and are so angry with him that you look as though you wished to kill him yourself. Now take him into your house and put some dry clothes on him; then send him to me in the house, where I will have some coffee ready for him. And mind you, Judy, if you lay your hands on that child in anger, that won’t be the last of it. Do for goodness’ sake try to learn some reason about your children.”
Judy led him away sullenly, and in spite of her mistress’s warning, muttered direful threatenings, louder and louder, as she approached, ending thus, as, having clothed him, she dispatched him to the big house:
“Nevah yah min’, sah; wait till Sunday come, when Mis’s go tah meetin’, an’ you’ll see! An’, boy, ef yah skeers me dat way ag’in, I’ll put yah whar yah won’t wan’ no mo’ watah an’ no mo’ nothin’. The idee! people all talkin’ ’bout my chile gittin’ drowned same as puppies an’ kittens! Ought to be ’shamed o’ yourself! I is. I jes’ ’spises to look at yah! G’long out my sight!”
Ten minutes afterwards, while little Ike was in the big house, luxuriating in coffee, biscuit and fried chicken, she was singing in cheerful voice one of her favorite hymns:
Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord;
Nobody knows the trouble I see;
Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord;
Nobody knows like Jesus.