“Mammy, Mister Rooster wants some more biscuit.”
“I ’speck he do; did yer ev’r know er man dat wus satisfied wid what wus give him? Yas, Lawd! dat rooster’ll stan’ dar an’ peck vit’als long es you thows hit ter ’im, eb’n whin he feel hissef bustin’ wide op’n; he’ll stretch his neck ter git one mo’ bite whilst he’s dyin’.”
“Who’s dyin?”
“Nobody ain’t dyin’, caze dat rooster ain’ gwina git ernuf fum me an’ you ter do him no harm.”
“Make him telephone again.”
“Nor, he say he want ter pass er lit’le conversation wid Sis Hen, an’ Miss Pullet, an’ tell ’em, mebbe ef dey scratch hard ernuf, dey’ll fine some crum’s er his but’r’d biskit.”
“Why didn’t Mister Rooster save ’em some?”
“Who, dat rooster?” Phyllis shook her head. “Dem wimmen hens doan git nuthin’ but whut dey scratches fur,” then thoughtfully she added: “Cose all roosters ain’ ’zackly erlike. Dey’s er few, but recoleck I says er pow’ful few, dat saves mos’ ev’ything fur de hens an’ chickens; den der’s some uv ’em dat saves right smart fur ’em; den der’s er heap uv ’em dat leaves ’em de crum’s, but de res’ er de rooster men fokes doan leave ’em nuthin’, an’ de po’ things hatt’r scratch fur der sefs.”
“Less give Sis Hen and Miss Pullet some biscuit too,” Mary Van insisted.
“You think Willis’s pa got ter feed all de po’ scratchin’ hens in dis worl’?—well, he ain’t.”