“I low ef we-all wuster race hoss ’roun’ dis hyah garret, ’tain’ long fo’ yo’ ma’ll be de dark hoss ter do de beatin’.”
“No, Mammy, put m’ harness on,” shaking the bells in impatience.
“I can’t play no race hoss up hyah terday, boy, ’caze Miss Lucy got her mine on ’lection news, an’ she say you got ter be quiet.”
“No, I’m going to be a race horse, put m’ harness on!”
“Auntie might whip you, Willis,” ventured Mary Van, “mightn’t she, Mammy Phyllis?”
“She whup ’im in er minit, ef he fool wid her terday.”
“Well, Mammy—” he fretted.
“Lis’n hyah, baby—Miss Race Hoss settin’ ov’r yond’r in de pastur’ waitin’ jes’ like yo’ ma is terday.”
“What’s she waiting for?”
“Waitin’ ter hyah ef Mist’r Race Hoss beat Brer Bar ter be ruler er de beastes. Oh, I tell yer Ned Dog mos’ run hisse’f plum ter death gittin’ votes fur Mist’r Race Hoss; an’ Mist’r Wile Cat, he de haid man gittin’ votes fur Brer Bar.”