“Crab apples!” was the answer.
“Well, ole Sis’ Cat was mean an’ ’ceitful, an’all ’er chillun is gwine ter be des like her long es I stays black an’ dem crab apples stays sour. Now run erlong,—dere’s de fust bell!”
VIII
SHOO FLY
Phyllis was eating her dinner under the cherry tree near the kitchen door. Willis seated himself on the grass in front of her.
“Mammy, you swallowed a fly then,” he said with earnestness.
“Look er heah, boy, ain’t you had ernuf ter eat, dat you got ter set hyah an’ sight ev’y piece uv vit’als I puts in my mouf?”
“Well, you didn’t want to eat a fly, did you?” he answered defensively.