"Doan' grieve, Mis' Ann, honey, doan' grieve," besought old July, laying a soothing hand on Mrs. Doggett's slender shaking shoulder,—a tear of sympathy standing on each withered cheek: "de chile ain' seein' no moah hard times, nuvver no moah."
Mrs. Doggett wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. "Callie wuz my best child, but my chillern are all good chillern, and," she added, a little pathetic note of defiance as to the world's opinion in her voice, "they've got pride about their clothes, and they know how to behave in comp'ny, ef they hain't got schoolin',—though some the boys is learnin' some sence they married: their wives is a teachin' 'em a little."
"Well, anyway," broke in Aunt July, "dey's de mannerest boys I knows. 'Scuse me for sayin' so, Mis' Ann, 'foah you, but most dem ole 'baccer folks, dey don't teach dey young uns nothin'. De old uns ain't got a speck o' manners deyselves. Sometimes I passes 'em out on de road, and dey'll be drunk, reelin' and a fallin' in fence corners. Dey'll holler at me disrespectful like, 'How are you, honey? Hi da', granny!' I nuvver 'turns 'em no answer—jest looks t'other way.
"But ef one yoah boys is out anywha' and don't see no moah o' me dan my coat-tail, he'll holler at hit, and speak and axe me how I comes on, and lif' his hat when he goes on, as respectful as you please; and de gals is jest de same. How is de gals gittin' along now, Mis' Ann?"
"The best kind, both of 'em!" replied Mrs. Doggett. "Johnny, Hattie's man, he's a clerkin' in a store now, and gits her a heap o' new thengs. Don't you thenk, he's got her a new orgin! Got hit cheap on account o' one o' the peddlers bein' a little out o' prepare; but 'tain't one o' them cheap orgins that don't sound no better'n a hog rubbin' agin a splinter! Hattie can't play on hit, but then company can, and an orgin's nice furnichur anyway."
"Yes, 'tis dat!" agreed Aunt July. "I seed one when I wuz on my trip. I reckon you ain't heerd 'bout me bein' on a trip 'foah Christmas? I rid' on de cyar-train for de fust time!"
"O mercy goodness, you know you didn't!" Mrs. Doggett gaped incredulously. "Did you go to see your gran'chillern in Indianopolus?"
A look of the liveliest scorn enveloped Aunt July.
"What'd I go to see dem black rapscallions for? Dey don't keer nothin' for dey folks now,—done gone off after style and fast livin'! Last spreng when dey pap, my Jimmy, wuz sick in town wid de typhoot fever, I had a letter son't 'em, and Jimmy mout 'a' died and been th'owed to de buzzards for all dem ciderette-smokin' clothes hosses keered. Dey nuvver son't de scratch o' a pen p'int den nor sence to esquire about his edition!
"Naw'm! I went to see Bru'h. Bru'h, he'd been desistin' on me comin' for a long time, but I wuz feerd—feerd de cyar-train. Dat big storm dey had down da' las' Februray wuz a year, blowed down de meetin'-house,—de ole one wha' Bru'h kep' his membership—plumb demoralized hit, hit bein' on a hill top, and when dey got de shengles on dey new meetin'-house, Bru'h writ me be shoah to come down, dey wuz gwine offer dey new church to de Lawd, and gwine hold a big 'traction meetin' right after de des'cration—and son't me a ticklet to come on. Jimmy—he desisted so, I give up and went."