“I's satisfied de way I be,” declared Mandy, as she plumped herself down on the garden bench and began to fidget with resentment.
“The way I am,” Polly persisted, sweetly.
“See here, chile, is day why you been a-settin' up nights an' keepin de light burnin'?”
“You mustn't say 'setting up;' you must say 'sitting up.' Hens set——”
“So do I,” interrupted Mandy; “I's doin' it NOW.” For a time she preserved an injured silence, then turned upon Polly vehemently. “If I had to think ob all dat ere foolishness eber' time I open my mouth, I'd done been tongue-tied afore I was born.”
“I could teach you in no time,” volunteered Polly, eagerly.
“I don't want to be teached,” protested Mandy, doggedly. “Hast Jones says I's too smart anyhow. Men don't like women knowin' too much—it skeers 'em. I's good enough for my old man, and I ain't a-tryin' to get nobody else's,” Mandy wound up flatly.
“But he'd like you all the better,” persisted Polly, laughing.
“I don' WANT to be liked no better by NO nigger,” snapped Mandy. “I's a busy woman, I is.” She made for the house, then curiosity conquered her and she came back to Polly's side. “See here, honey, whose been l'arnin' you all dem nonsense?”
“I learn from Mr. Douglas. I remember all the things he tells me, and at night I write them down and say them over. Do you see this, Mandy?” She took a small red book from her belt and put it into Mandy's black chubby fists.