“Foh Gord, Missy, I dun no; spect nobody duz.”
“No,” sez I in a despairin’ axent, “nobody duz.”
The father could earn good wages at his trade, which wuz paintin’ and whitewashin’, and the mother wuz a good cook and laundress. And the boys wuz strong and healthy. But they would none of them work only jest enough to get a little something to eat and a few articles of clothin’, and then they would stop all labor, and none of the family work another day’s work till that wuz all used up.
Wall, she told me that day that her husband wuz sick agin, and they hadn’t any provisions; so we sent them down a sack of flour and a few pounds of butter.
They wuz sent about the middle of the forenoon and St. Luke wuz imegiatly despatched to get buttermilk—he wanted to get a good deal, he said, for they wanted enough to make a good many messes of biscuit. And Barnabas wuz sent out to borry some soda.
I sez to St. Luke, “Why don’t your Ma make riz bread? it would make the flour last as long agin, and then it would be fur more wholesome.”
And he told me that they didn’t love it so well.
Wall, we sent the buttermilk.
That night Thomas Jefferson wuz kep’ out late on business, and he passed their cabin at twelve o’clock at night, and he see the family all up, seated round the table eatin’.
And I asked Barnaby the next day, when he come on his usual errant for milk, if they wuz sick in the night.