“Give ’em this piece. It hasn’t got any butter on it.” Willis handed her the bread.
“Lawsee,” she threw up the disengaged hand and brought it down softly on the little boy’s head, “but ain’t you ’zackly like all de uth’r roosters—an’ hens too fur dat matt’r—willin’ ter give ’em dat ole crus’ atter you done eat all de sof but’r’d insides out’n it!”
A lusty crow sounded from the rooster in the yard.
“Mammy, what did Mister Rooster say?”
“He say ‘dey’s er good little boy in h-y-a-h,’” trilled Phyllis, imitating the rooster’s crow.
Willis smiled while his hands unconsciously clapped applause. Slipping from her lap, he ran about the room flapping his arms and crowing: “There’s a good little boy in h-e-r-e, there’s er good little boy in h-e-r-e.”
Mary Van started in the opposite direction: “There’s a good little girl in h-e-r-e.”
“Hush, Mary Van,” commanded Willis; “you can’t crow, you’ve got to cackle.”
“I haven’t neether; I can crow just as good as you. Can’t I, Mammy Phyllis?”
“Well,” solemnly answered Phyllis, “it soun’ mo’ ladylike ter heah er hen cackle dan ter crow, but dem wimmen hens whut wants ter heah dersefs crow is got de right ter do it,” shaking her head in resignation but disapproval, “but I allus notice dat de roosters keeps mo’ comp’ny wid hens whut cackles, dan dem whut crows. G’long now an’ cackle like er nice lit’le hen.”