“Well, yo’ air, Pap,” said his daughter. “Yo’ sho’ air, and ef yo’ keep on pestering me with that tarnation tune——”
Gloriana-Virginia, her wise little monkey eyes soft with sympathy, patted her grandfather’s sleeve with her sallow claw. “Jes’ think how fine hit’ll be to set in the sun and rest, Gran-pappy!”
He brightened. “That’s so, Glory, and jes’ think how much time I’ll git fo’ my practicing!”
“Glory, yo’ hesh yo’ clack and eat!” her aunt rebuked her.
The child picked up a chunk of cold corn pone. “Hit’s quare, M’liss’, some way; I figger and figger ’bout my dinner and how good hit’ll taste, and then, when hit comes, I cain’t eat skurse a bite.”
“Hit’s kaze yo’ so plumb full o’ lint,” M’liss’ explained to her indifferently. “Beany, he kin eat what yo’ don’t want.”
Young Mr. Parker turned his attention to the very little boy and asked him gravely how he did.
“I’m right peart, suh,” the child answered solemnly.
“You are? Well, I might state in passing that you hardly look the part, old-timer. You wouldn’t romp home with any blue ribbon from a Better Baby Contest, would you?”
“No, suh,” he assured him earnestly.