“Mammy gwine whup dat telerfome,” she continued, “an’ de flo’ too, caze dey hu’t her baby.” And she proceeded to execute the threat.
“Don’t whip the telephone—whip the table!” he screamed.
“Dat’s right,” striking the table with a towel; “’twas dat ole table done all de mischuf—Mammy gwina rub camfer on dat telerfome’s haid des like she rub’in on yorn, an’ beg his pard’n too,” looking for the raised place. “Come on ov’r ter de wind’r so Mammy kin see her baby’s haid good!”
“I don’t want you to see it good!” And the wails redoubled.
“Lawsee! Look at dat ole rooster in de yard!” half dragging the little fellow to the window; “he’s done gone an’ telerfome ter Miss Churchill’s rooster ’bout you holl’rin’ an’ kicken’ up so!”
“No, he shan’t!” blubbered Willis.
“He done done it, an’ he fixin’ ter do hit ergin!”
Another crow from the rooster: “I tole yer so! heah ’im? An’ Miss Churchill’s rooster done telerfome ov’r ter Miss Coxe’s roost’r, an’ dey keeps on telerfomin’ ter de nex’ yard tell all de roost’rs in dis whole place’ll know you settin’ up hyah cryin’ an’ yellin’ like you wus Ma’y Van.”
“I don’t want ’em to tell,” said the little boy, burying his face on her shoulder.
“I doan speck yer does, but he done tole hit!” A fresh burst followed, which Phyllis strove to quiet. “Hyah, eat dis nice butt’r’d biskit Mammy bin savin’ fur yer.” Willis pushed the bread away. She coaxed, “I speck ef you eats er lit’le, an’ thows er lit’le out yond’r ter ole man Roost’r, he’ll git in er good humor (like all de men fokes does whin dey eats), an’ he’ll telerfome ter Miss Churchill’s roost’r dat he jes foolin’ him, an’ Miss Churchill’s roost’r’ll keep de wurd passin’ erlong dat way tell all de roost’rs’ll know our ole Shanghi jes pass er joke off on you.”