CLEOPATRA.
Rosy, the young granddaughter, wuz utterly without morals of any savin’ kind. She wuz rather pretty for a full-blooded African. A empty-headed, gigglin’, utterly depraved study in black.
Not one of the family could read or write, or hardly tell the time of day. Two large dogs formed part of their household, and they seemingly possessed more intelligence than either of the human residents.
Rosy used often to come to Maggie’s kitchen to ask for things they wanted. For one peculiarity of this family wuz that they seemed only serenely performin’ their duty when they begged for anything they wanted.
One day, as she sot before me arrayed in cheap, dirty finery, I said to her:
“Rosy, can you read or write?”
“No, missy.”
“Wouldn’t you like to learn to?”
“I d’no, missy.”
“There is a colored school only a little ways from here, where a good many of your people are learnin’ to be good scholars. Why don’t you go to it?”