“Ha-ha! Oh, hi-hi!
Not a light;
Not a bite!
What a Saturday Night!”
she trilled, taking off a comedian from the Eden Garden.
Like all other negresses she possessed a natural bent for mimicry, and a voice of that lisping quality that would find complete expression in songs such as: Have you seen my sweet garden ob Flowehs? Sst! Come closter, Listen heah, Lead me to the Altar, Dearest, and His Little Pink, proud, Spitting-lips are Mine.
“What is that you’re wearing?”
“A souvenir ob to-day; I buy it fo’ Luck,” she rippled, displaying a black briar cross pinned to her breast.
“I hope it’s blessed?”