“Let de chile erlone, Sis Rachel,” interposed Uncle Bob; “she ain’t no grown lady, an’ I seed marster he’p’n uv her plate hisse’f; she nuber eat none too much, consid’n hit wuz de Fourf uv July.”
“Didn’t I eat no shotes an’ lambs, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, wiping her eyes.
“I don’t b’lieve yer did,” said Uncle Bob. “I seed yer eat er squ’l or two, an’ er few fish, likely; an’ dem, wid er sprinklin’ uv roas’n yurs an’ cakes, wuz de mos’ wat I seed yer eat.”
“An’ dat wuz too much,” said Mammy, “right befo’ de gemmuns.”
But Dumps was comforted at Uncle Bob’s moderate statement of the case, and so Mammy’s lecture lost much of its intended severity.
As they were driving through the grove before reaching the house it was quite dark, and they heard an owl hooting in one of the trees.
“I see yer keep on sayin’ yer sass,” said Daddy Jake, addressing the owl. “Ef’n I’d er done happen ter all you is ’bout’n hit, I’d let hit erlone myse’f.”
“What’s he sayin’?” asked Diddie.
“Wy, don’t yer hyear him, honey, er sayin’,
‘Who cooks fur you-oo-a?
Who cooks fur you-oo-a?
Ef you’ll cook for my folks,
Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll?’