But I’m not gwine to let sich matters interfere with my marryin’ spekelations. I call it spekelation, for, you know, ther’s no tellin’ how these things is gwine to turn out. In the fust place, it’s a chance if a body git’s the gall he’s courtin’, and after he’s got her all to himself for better or for worse, it’s a chance agin if she don’t turn out a monstrous site worse nor he tuck her for. But I think mine’s a pretty safe business, for Miss Mary is jest a leetle the smartest, and best, and the butifulest gall in Georgia. I’ve seed her two or three times lately, and I ain’t more’n half so afraid of her as I used to be. I told her t’other night I had a Crismus gift for her, which I hoped she would take and keep.
“What is it, Majer?” ses she.
“Oh!” ses I, “it’s something what I wouldn’t give nobody else in the world!”
“Well, but what is it—do tell me?”
“Something,” ses I, “what you stole from me a long time ago, and sense you’ve got it I want you to keep it, and give me one like it in return.”
“Well do tell me what it is, fust,” ses she and I seed her cut her eye at Miss Carline, and sort o’ smile.
“But will you give me one in return?” ses I.
“What, Majer—tell me what?”
“I’ll tell you Crismus eve,” ses I. “But will you give me yours in return?”
“Yours! eh, my ——,” then her face got as red as a poppy, and she looked down.