Aunt Nabby went down to Sue, who was getting breakfast.
“Susanna,” said she, “the boy tells how we ain’t got a goose in creation. Now what shall we do?”
“Go without,” replied Susanna, with that amiable tone which father said had worn off her teeth to the gums.
But Aunt Nabby was bent upon a goose, and when such a stiff and straight person gets bent upon anything, you may consider the matter settled, and I saw that a goose of some kind would be had at some rate or other.
“Here, you crittur,” cried Aunt Nabby to the little black specimen of the human family which was digging potatoes in the garden, “here, I want you to go along to the neighbours, and borra a goose.” Cato laid down his hoe, got over the fence, and shovelled off on his broad pedestals to get a goose.
The first house that Cato came to was that of Sam Soap, the tailor, commonly called Soft Soap. Into the shop went the Yankeefied negro, and making a leg to Mr. Soap, who sat like a Hindoo idol, busily employed in patching an old blue coat with still older brown rags, and humming most mournfully the air of “Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,” giving it a nasal twang that came direct from Jedediah Soap, who was a member of the Long Parliament.
“Soap,” says Cato, “you haan’t got no goose, nor nothin’, haan’t ye, for Aunt Nabby?”
Soap was a literal (not literary) man, who as he called his daughter Propriety, and having but one eye, was likewise called Justice, that is by some that were classical. “Priety,” says he, “gin Cato the largest goose.”
Priety, like a good girl, went into the other room, and arter some time returned with one, well enveloped and carefully wrapped up in paper, telling Cato to be as careful as everlasting not to get it wet; and away went the web-footed mortal to deliver his charge to Susanna.
“My gracious!” said Sue, “if that are niggar ain’t brought me a tough feller to stew!”