“Sh’o, Edna, she some young yet.... But Miami dat distinguée; an’, doh I her mother, b’lieb me dat is one ob de choicest girls I see; an ’dat’s de trute.”
“It queer,” Mr. Mouth abstrusely murmured, “how many skeeter-bugs dair are ’bout dis ebenin’!”
“De begonias in de window-boxes most lik’ly draw dem. But as I was saying, Prancing Nigger, I t’ink it bery strange dat Madame Ruiz nebba call.”
“P’raps, she out ob town.”
“Accordin’ to de paper, she bin habing her back painted, but what dat fo’ I dunno.”
“Ah shouldn’t wonder ef she hab some trouble ob a dorsal kind; same as me gramma mumma long agone.”
“Dair’d be no harm in sendin’ one ob de chillens to enquire. Wha’ you t’ink, sah?” Mrs. Mouth demanded, plucking from off the porch a pale hanging flower with a languorous scent.
Mr. Mouth glanced apprehensively skyward.
The mutters of thunder and intermittent lightning of the finest nights.
“It’s a misfortnit we eber left Mediavilla,” he exclaimed uneasily, as a falling star, known as a thief star, sped swiftly down the sky.