“Lawd, Phyllis,” he replied pushing his hat on the back of his head and folding his arms across his chest, “you’se he’rd er menny time dat
“‘De bees dat swarms in May,
Is wurth er load er hay,
De bees dat swarms in June
Is wurth er silv’r spoon;
Dem dat swarms in July
Ain’t wurth er house fly.’
An’ dem bees er swarmin’ hyah in Argus’ ain’ wurth nuthin’ but ter show you whut er bee-hiv’r I is.”
“Hit show pertic’ler you ain’ nuthin’ ter make honey out’n,” Phyllis laughed.
“I ain’ notice none uv ’em smackin’ der mouf’ ov’r you yerse’f, Sis’ Phyllis,” he retorted grinning.
“Bees don’t eat people, Uncle Zeek,” Mary Van endeavored to explain, “they just sting them like hornets do.”
“Does dey, honey? Well, I boun’ none uv ’em ain’ gwine wase er sting on dat ole black bag er salt ov’r yond’r,” pointing at Phyllis.
“My Mammy’s not any old black salt either!” And Willis squeezed her around the neck.
“She’s er ole black nigg’r, dat’s whut she is,” teased Zeek.
“She’s not black!—and she’s not a nigger either!” and he began to kiss her face.