“Come on, Mammy, less us get my lit’le green snakes Unk Zeek brought me,” Willis started back to the garden.
“Come back hyah, boy,” as she caught him by the skirt of his blouse, “dem snakes wusn’t brung hyah fur you, Zeek jes’ makin’ er ’cat’s paw’ er you. He ’ceivin’ you jes’ like Mist’r Rattlesnake done Miss Eve.”
“No, he ain’t, Unk Zeek loves me,” defended the boy.
“Dat’s jes’ whut Miss Eve think whin de sarpint temp’ her.”
“What’s er sarpint?” He still pulled against her.
“Er sarpint is er snake, honey—dat’s jes’ his scriptur’ name—come on an’ set in Mammy’s lap an’ she’ll tell yer ’bout how ole Mist’r Rattlesnake fix hisse’f up so fine, way back yonder time, an’ come struttin’ roun’ Miss Eve. He nuv’r come crawlin’ like snakes does dese days neeth’r, nor, suh, he come walkin’ plum on de een’ er his tail; an’ he look s’ fine an’ starchy dat—”
“Didn’t he have to hop?” Willis scrambled into her lap.
“Nor, de Lawd fix hit so he doan hatt’r hop. I’m tellin’ ’zackly de trufe,—he come walkin’ on de een’ er his tail,” she insisted, “an he look s’ fine an’ gran’, like some er de fine men folks, dat Miss Eve cudn’t see how black wid sin he wus.”
“You are not black with sin,” and he pulled the wrinkled face to him and kissed it.
“Bless my baby,” looking into his face as she hugged him, “dis hyah black on Mammy’s face is nig’r black,” she squeezed him again, “but sin black, like Mr. Rattlesnake got, stays in fokeses hearts whar hits hard ter see, whin hit’s kiv’r’d up wid fine man’rs an’ er slick tongue.