“Well, when you git clam nuff, den you must wash ’em, and dat is more trouble dan dey is worth; for dey is werry gritty naturally, like buckwheat dat is trashed in de field—takes two or tree waters, and salt is better dan fresh, cause you see fresh water make him sick. Well, now, Massa, de question is, what will you ab; clam soup, clam sweetbread, clam pie, clam fritter, or bake clam?”
“Which do you tink best, Sorrow?” sais I.
“Well, Massa, dey is all good in dere way; missus used to fection baked clams mighty well, but we can’t do dem so tip-top at sea; clam sweetbread, she said, was better den what is made ob oyster; and as to clam soup, dat pends on de cook. Now, Massa, when missus and me went to wisit de president’s plantation, I see his cook, Mr Sallust, didn’t know nuffin’ bout parin’ de soup. What you tink he did, Massa? stead ob poundin’ de clams in a mortar fust, he jist cut ’em in quarters and puts ’em in dat way. I nebber see such ignorance since I was raised. He made de soup ob water, and actilly put some salt in it; when it was sarved up—it was rediculous disgraceful—he left dem pieces in de tureen, and dey was like leather. Missus said to me:
“‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘I shall starve here; dem military men know nuffin’ but bout hosses, dogs, and wine; but dey ain’t delicate no way in dere tastes, and yet to hear ’em talk you’d be most afeered to offer ’em anyting, you’d tink dey was de debbel and all.’”
“Did she use those words, Sorrow?”
“Well, not zactly,” he said, scratching his head, “dey was dicksionary words and werry fine, for she had great ‘finement bout her; but dat was de meanin’ ob ’em.
“‘Now, Sorrow,’ she said, ‘tell me de trut, wasn’t dat soup now made of water?’
“‘Yes, Missus, it was,’ said I, ‘I seed it wid my own eyes.’
“‘I taut so,’ she said, ‘why dat cook ain’t fit to tend a bear trap, and bait it wid sheep’s innerds.’”
“Did she use those words?”