"Well, 'fo' Gawd, when niggers gits to writin' fuh white folks, ants'll be jumpin' fuh bullfrogs—an havin' other niggers bring dey breakfusses. You jes as much a nigger as I is, Peter Siner, de brightes' day you ever seen!"
Peter began a conciliatory phrase.
Old Rose banged the platter on the table and then threatened:
"Dis is de las' time I fetches a moufful to you, Peter Siner, or any other nigger. You ain't no black Jesus, even ef you is a woods calf."
Peter paused in drawing a chair to the table.
"What did you say, Rose?" he asked sharply.
"You heared whut I say."
A wave of anger went over Peter.
"Yes, I did. You ought to be ashamed to speak ill of the dead."
The crone tossed her malicious head, a little abashed, perhaps, yet very glad she had succeeded in hurting Peter. She turned and went out the door, mumbling something which might have been apology or renewed invectives.