“Sorrow,” said I, “this is too bad; go forward now and cut this foolery short. You will be too drunk to cook the dinner if you go on that way.”
“Massa,” said he, “dis child nebber was drunk in his life; but he is frose most to deaf wid de wretched fogs (dat give people here ‘blue noses’), an de field ice, and raw winds: I is as cold as if I slept wid a dead niggar or a Yankee. Yah, yah, yah.
“‘Well, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dem clams do mind me ob chickens. Now, Missus, will you skuse me if I git you the receipt Miss Phillis and I ab cyphered out, how to presarve chickens?’
“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will. Let me hear it. Dat is sumthen new.’
“‘Well, Missus, you know how you and I is robbed by our niggars like so many minks. Now, Missus, sposin’ you and I pass a law dat all fat poultry is to be brought to me to buy, and den we keep our fat poultry locked up; and if dey steal de lean fowls, and we buy ’em, we saves de fattenin’ of ’em, and gibs no more arter all dan de vally of food and tendin’, which is all dey gits now, for dere fowls is always de best fed in course; and when we ab more nor we wants for you and me, den I take ’em to market and sell ’em; and if dey will steal ’em arter dat, Missus, we must try ticklin’; dere is nuffin’ like it. It makes de down fly like a feather-bed. It makes niggars wery sarcy to see white tief punished tree times as much as dey is; dat are a fac, Missus. A poor white man can’t work, and in course he steal. Well, his time bein’ no airthly use, dey gib him six month pensiontary; and niggar, who can airn a dollar or may be 100 cents a day, only one month. I spise a poor white man as I do a skunk. Dey is a cuss to de country; and it’s berry hard for you and me to pay rates to support ’em: our rates last year was bominable. Let us pass dis law, Missus, and fowl stealin’ is done—de ting is dead.’
“‘Well, you may try it for six months,’ she say, ‘only no whippin’. We must find some oder punishment,’ she said.
“‘I ab it,’ sais I, ‘Missus! Oh Lord a massy, Missus! oh dear missus! I got an inwention as bright as bran new pewter button. I’ll shave de head of a tief close and smooth. Dat will keep his head warm in de sun, and cool at night; do him good. He can’t go courtin’ den, when he ab ‘no wool whar de wool ought to grow,’ and spile his ‘frolicken, and all de niggaroons make game ob him. It do more good praps to tickle fancy ob niggars dan to tickle dere hide. I make him go to church reglar den to show hisself and his bald pate. Yah, yah, yah!’”
“Come, Sorrow,” I said, “I am tired of all this foolery; either tell me how you propose to cook the clams, or substitute something else in their place.”
“Well, Massa,” he said, “I will; but railly now when I gits talkin’ bout my dear ole missus, pears to me as if my tongue would run for ebber. Dis is de last voyage I ebber make in a fishin’ craft. I is used to de first society, and always moved round wid ladies and gentlemen what had ‘finement in ’em. Well, Massa, now I comes to de clams. First of all, you must dig de clams. Now dere is great art in diggin’ clams.
“Where you see little hole like worm hole dere is de clam. He breathe up tru dat, and suck in his drink like sherry-cobbler through a straw. Whar dere is no little air holes, dere is no clam, dat are a fac. Now, Massa, can you tell who is de most knowin’ clam-digger in de worl? De gull is, Massa; and he eat his clam raw, as some folks who don’t know nuffin’ bout cookin’ eat oysters. He take up de clam ebber so far in de air, and let him fall right on de rock, which break shell for him, and down he goes and pounces on him like a duck on a June bug. Sometimes clam catch him by de toe though, and hold on like grim death to a dead niggar, and away goes bird screamin’ and yellin’, and clam sticking to him like burr to a hosses tail. Oh, geehillikin, what fun it is. And all de oder gulls larf at him like any ting; dat comes o’ seezin’ him by de mout instead ob de scruff ob de neck.